GIFT    OF 
JANE  KoMTHER 


EURIPIDES    AND    SHAW 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 
Greek  Tragedy 


EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

WITH  OTHER  ESSAYS 


BY 


GILBERT  NORWOOD 


METHUEN    &    GO.    LTD. 

36    ESSEX    STREET    W.G. 

LONDON 


First  Published  in  ig2Z 


FN 


NOTE 

TWO  of  these  essays  were  originally 
lectures.  "  Euripides  and  Shaw  "  was 
delivered  in  1911,  ''The  Present  Re- 
naissance of  English  Drama"  in  1913.  I 
have  to  thank  the  Literary  and  Debating 
Society  of  Newport  (Mon.)  and  the  Editor 
of  the  Welsh  Outlook  •  respectively  for  per- 
mission to  reprint  them.  Both  have  been 
revised,  and  the  second  has  been  brought 
up  to  date. 

For  the  Index  I  am  indebted  to  the  kind- 
ness of  my  friend,  Mr.  Cyril  Brett. 

GILBERT  NORWOOD 

Preston 


470560 


PAGE 
1 


CONTENTS 

Euripides  and  Shaw:    A  Comparison 

The  Present  Renaissance  of  English  Drama       49 

The  Nature  and  Methods  of  Drama  .  109 

Index 

.     211 


EURIPIDES     AND    SHAW 

A    COMPARISON 

OUR  subject  can  best  be  understood 
if  viewed,  in  the  first  instance,  his- 
torically. Both  Euripides  and  Mr. 
Bernard  Shaw  have  been  voices  of  an 
age  of  reaction,  of  an  age  which  stood  in 
marked  and  recognized  contrast  to  the  era 
which  had  immediately  preceded  it.  Let 
us  begin  then  with  the  briefest  historical 
survey  and  endeavour  to  compare  these  two 
reactions. 

It  is  usually  hard  or  impossible  for  any 
man  to  describe,  perhaps  even  to  under- 
stand, the  history  and  spirit  of  his  own 
generation.  But  the  present  epoch  is  ex- 
ceptional; it  can  be  understood  even  by 
those  who  live  in  it  if  they  keep  before 
their  eyes  a  strong  contrast,  precisely  the 
contrast  which  it  is  my  present  business  to 
indicate.  There  is  a  real  gulf  between  us  and 
the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century.  In  Eng- 


2  EUBIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

land,  at  any  rate,  the  march  of  affairs  broke 
into  a  kind  of  hand-gallop,  ending  with  a 
leap  over  a  chasm  which  can  hardly  be 
defined,  into  a  morass  from  which  we  have 
not  yet  found  our  way.  This  jerk  in  our 
progress,  this  turning-point  (to  use  a  more 
decorous  metaphor),  is  to  be  found  in  the 
Education  Act  of  1870,  a  piece  of  legislation 
which  has  already  given  results  of  gigantic 
importance,  generating  and  letting  loose 
energies,  the  history  of  which  has  hardly 
more  than  begun.  But  their  activity  has 
already  shaken  society.  On  many  momen- 
tous subjects  it  is  impossible  for  us  to  think 
or  act  as  we  thought  and  acted  fifty  years 
ago.  The  present  age  is  severed  from  what 
is  called  the  Victorian  era  with  a  complete- 
ness which  is  truly  amazing  when  we  con- 
sider the  fewness  of  the  years ;  but  not 
more  amazing  than  the  extent  to  which 
analogous  conditions  enable  us  to  enter 
into  the  spirit  of  an  epoch  so  far  sundered 
from  us  in  time  as  the  age  of  Euripides. 
We  can  understand  Pericles  better  than  we 
understand  Palmerston. 

It  will  be  enough  for  our  purpose  if  we 
confine  ourselves  to  pointing  out  the  differ- 
ence in  spirit  between  the  present  time  and 


A  COMPARISON  8 

the  Victorian  age.     Consider  the  legislation 
of  two  generations  ago,  the  tone  and  the 
implied  assumptions  of  statesmen,  of  orators, 
of  political   and   social  theorists  ;    the   for- 
mulae,   sometimes   not   expressed   but   often 
definitely  proclaimed,  which  ruled  the  differ- 
ent  classes   of   society   in  their   inward  life 
and    their    outward    contacts.     Above    all, 
consider  the  literature   of  those   days — ^the 
writers  who  were  not  only  great  but  also 
popular,  and  who  therefore  voiced  the  opinions 
and  emotions  of  their  less  articulate  fellows 
— Dickens,  Macaulay,  Wordsworth,  Tenny- 
son.    Add  to  these  that  invaluable  chronicle 
of  manners  and  customs,  the  back  numbers 
of  Punch.     Are  we  not  already  far  enough 
removed  from  them  to  observe,  in  spite  of 
their  manifold  differences,  a  unity  of  spirit, 
a  definite  tone  ?     Above  all  we  are  conscious 
of    a    robust    faith    in    everything    Englisli 
and  of  the  nineteenth  century,  a  certainty 
that  all  the  men  of  the  past  have  been  but 
so    many    coral    insects    building    up    that 
perfect  structure  which  has  at  last  emerged 
above  the  waters  of  humiliation  and  experi- 
ment into  the  sunshine  of  the  Great  Exhibi- 
tion.    England  is  the  heir  of  all  the  ages 
and    the    centre    of    space.     From    London 


4  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

there  is  a  slight  fall  to  the  provinces,  and 
then  again  to  Scotland  and  Wales,  with  a 
deep  but  isolated  depression  to  mark  Ireland. 
The  level  falls  rapidly  as  we  come  to  "  for- 
eigners," among  whom  the  French  have  a 
bad  pre-eminence.  Farther  down  the  slope 
are  Germans,  Americans,  and  then  the  rest 
of  Europe.  Thus  at  length  we  reach  the 
dim  collections  of  humanity  known  as 
"  natives,"  whose  territory  provides  the 
Englishman  with  a  species  of  drill-hall  in 
which  to  exercise  his  celebrated  bull-dog 
virtues  and  enjoy  to  the  full  the  luxury  of 
patronizing  people  who  can  never  annoy 
him  by  rivalry. 

Even  the  greatest  of  the  popular  writers 
were  not  untainted  by  this  childishness. 
The  more  free  an  author  was  from  it,  the 
harder  was  it  for  him  to  gain  a  high  reputa- 
tion in  his  own  day  ;  Carlyle  is  an  example, 
and  Shelley  above  all.  In  the  work  of 
those  who  really  struck  the  imagination  of 
their  contemporaries,  in  writers  like  Macaulay 
and  Tennyson,  there  is  a  tone  of  gentlemanly 
arrogance,  of  urbane  self-satisfaction,  which 
impels  one  to  echo  Sydney  Smith's  wistful 
remark  :  "I  wish  I  were  as  sure  of  anything 
as  Tom  Macaulay  is  of  everything." 


A  COMPARISON  5 

Since  those  days  we  have  passed  through 
a  profound  reaction.  The  nation  which 
seemed  to  believe  that  Queen  Victoria  was 
immortal  has  seen  her  fade  into  a  name  to 
which  there  clings  already  the  faintest  strange 
tinge  of  unfamiliarity.  With  that  great 
figure  has  departed  all  the  crude  but  not 
ignoble  certainty,  all  the  superficial  worship 
of  progress.  The  heir  of  all  the  ages  has 
cut  the  entail.  Where  most  we  were  self- 
confident,  we  question  most.  We  who  spoke 
with  such  confidence  about  far  Cathay  have 
begun  to  realize  how  little  we  know  of  our 
own  country.  The  people  that  saw  a  great 
light  now  sits  in  darkness,  half-lit  by  gleams 
of  which  it  knows  not  whether  they  are  the 
radiance  of  a  new  dawn  or  the  marsh-fires 
of  diseased  yearning  and  perverted  energy. 

It  would  be  an  almost  warrantable  con- 
ciseness to  remark  at  this  point  that,  as 
for  the  reaction  in  which  Euripides  was  a 
leading  figure,  it  has  been  already  described ; 
that  the  contrast  between  the  period  of  his 
greatest  activity — or,  to  put  it  more  accur- 
ately, of  his  extant  dramas — and  the  earlier 
part  of  the  fifth  century  B.C.  is  roughly  the 
same  as  the  contrast  in  England.  The 
magnificent  exploits  of  Athens  in  the  struggle 


6  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

against  Persia,  the  political  power  and  the 
undying  glory  which  she  had  won  by  her 
victories  over  the  barbarian  invaders,  had 
indeed  given  an  enormous  impulse  to  Athen- 
ian patriotism  and  so  to  the  national  art 
in  its  varied  forms  of  the  drama,  painting, 
sculpture,  and  architecture,  an  impulse  re- 
minding us  of  the  flood  of  pride  and  energy 
which  filled  the  English  nation  during  and 
after  its  contest  with  Napoleon.  But  by 
the  time  at  which  the  Peloponnesian  War 
broke  out  (the  year  431  B.C.),  which  is  also, 
roughly,  the  time  of  Euripides'  earliest 
surviving  work,  this  impulse  had  already 
passed  away.  Athens  had  begun  to  descend 
from  the  pinnacle  of  political  and  artistic 
achievement.  She  was,  indeed,  destined 
still  to  be  important  in  politics,  and  her 
literature,  both  in  poetry  and  in  prose, 
maintained  itself  at  a  splendid  height,  but 
for  the  time  decadence  seemed  to  have  set  its 
mark  everywhere  else.  The  Delian  League 
had  become  an  empire  and  then  a  tyranny  ; 
philosophy  was  for  a  while,  to  all  appear- 
ance, undermined  by  the  shallow  accom- 
plishments of  the  Sophists  ;  democracy  was 
becoming  ochlocracy.  The  spectacle  of  the 
rapid  fading  of  so  much  glory  had  tainteli 


A  COMPARISON  7 

men  with  that  cynicism  of  which  Euripides 
often  speaks.  Like  Shaw,  he  was  compelled  ^ 
by  the  m^gency  of  his  environment  and  by 
the  law  of  his  own  nature  to  express  the 
prevalent  sense  of  moral  and  intellectual 
bankruptcy,  but  at  the  same  moment  to 
seek  for,  and  to  follow,  the  road  towards  a 
new,  more  humble,  hope. 

Let  so  much  suffice  as  an  outline  of  tlie 
historical  conditions  which  have  brought 
these  two  great  dramatists  into  a  kinship 
of  ideas  and  method.  It  is  now  time  that 
we  should  study  this  similarity  in  a  more 
detailed  manner.  The  comparison  between 
Euripides  and  Mr.  Shaw  has  often  been  made 
and  is,  indeed,  quaintly  suggested  to  us  by 
the  delightful  passage  in  Major  Barbara 
where  Shaw  himself  alludes  to  Euripides, 
and  almost  brings  him  upon  his  stage  in  the 
person  of  the  professor  of  Greek.  There 
are  four  main  features  which  are  to  be  found 
in  both  dramatists,  characteristics  of  funda- 
mental importance  in  the  workmanship  and 
intellectual  outlook  of  both. 

First  should  be  placed  a  spirit  of  challenge 
to  all  accepted  beliefs.  The  dramatist  sees 
around  him  a  whole  world  of  assumptions,  a 
whole  gallery  of  revered  portraits  of  human 


greatness.     Jtie  is  tne  very  voice  oi  an  age 
of  questions,  and  by  the  law  of  his  nature 
he  insists  on  revising  all  notions  however 
fundamental,  all  conventions   however   uni- 
versal, all  religious  systems  however  august. 
This  by  no  means   implies   that   he   thinks 
the  whole  world  mistaken.     He  may,  per- 
haps, endorse  the  verdict  of  ages  when  he 
has    completed    his    examination — ^but    not 
before.     He  feels  that  the  world  spurns  all 
truth    while    it    is    fresh    and    stimulating, 
embracing   it   only   when,   by  the   force   of 
obsolescence,  it  is  already  becoming  error. 
Once  in  every  generation  at  least,  a  nation 
must  take  stock  of  its  creed  and  its  conduct. 
The  whole  history  of  human  sorrow  and  waste 
is  nothing  but  the  admission  that  such  re- 
visions have  been  often  and  terribly  overdue. 
It  is  the  deep  glory  of  these  two  writers 
that  their  self-examination,  their  sturdy  sin- 
gularity, their  almost  fierce  determination  to 
sound  and  test  everything,  is  as  complete 
as   it   can  be   in   a   human   creature.     This 
merciless  sincerity  can  endure  the  last  trial 
of  all :   they  are  both  capable  of  ridiculing 
their  own  reasoned  position  as  if  it  were  the 
most    superficial    pose.     Take    this    passage 
from  The  Doctor's  Dilemma.     It  occurs  in 


the  scene  where  Louis  Dubedat,  artistically 
a  genius  but  morally  a  complete  scoundrel, 
is  confronted  by  a  sort  of  committee  of 
doctors,  who  are  trying  to  bring  his  baseness 
home  to  him  : 

Louis  :  You're  on  the  wrong  tack 
altogether.  I'm  not  a  criminal.  All  your 
moralizings  have  no  value  for  me.  I  don't 
believe  in  morality.  I'm  a  disciple  of 
Bernard   Shaw. 

Sir  Patrick  :  Bernard  Shaw  ?  I  never 
heard  of  him.  He's  a  Methodist  preacher, 
I  suppose  ? 

Louis  (scandalized) :  No,  no.  He's  tlie 
most  advanced  man  now  living :  he  isn't 
anything. 

What  could  be  more  clear  than  that  Mr. 
Shaw,  under  the  flippancy  of  this,  is  quite 
aware  how  his  own  position  about  morality 
— a  position  he  has  elsewhere  succinctly 
defined  in  the  words  "  morality  may  go  to 
its  father  the  Devil " — may  become  a  mere 
pose  and  a  justification  for  any  clever  black- 
guard ?  He  is  always  turning  on  his  own 
would-be  followers.  The  whole  of  that 
slight  amusing  piece  called  How  He  Lied  to 
her  Husband  is  an  example — a  demonstra- 
tion of  what  cheap  folly  even  such  a  pro- 
foundly touching  and  indeed  terrible  situa- 


10  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

tion  as  that  of  Candida  may  become  when 
transplanted  to  an  atmosphere  of  second- 
hand characters  and  shoddy  thinking. 

Turn  for  a  moment  to  Euripides,  and  we 
find    a     surprisingly    similar    case     in    the 
Bacchce,   his  last   and   perhaps  his  greatest 
drama.     Throughout  his  life  Euripides  has 
been  attacking  the  traditional  beliefs  about 
the   orthodox   Olympian    gods   with    every    i 
resource  of  his  splendid  moral  earnestness,    , 
his  intellectual  penetration,  and  his  technical    ! 
skill.     And  yet,  at  the  end  of  his  life,  what 
does  he  say  ? 

I  do  not  rationalize  about  the  gods.     Those  I 

V" .  ancestral  traditions,  coeval  with  time,  which  i 

are    our    possession,    no    reason    can    over-  | 

\  throw,  not  even  if  subtle  brains  have  dis-  i 

covered  what  they  call  wisdom.  I 

This    passage,    which    I    have    translated  | 

clumsily  but    as  fairly  as  I  can,  has  often  ! 
been  regarded  as  the  poet's  recantation  of 

the  convictions  and  the  teaching  of  a  life-  ? 

time.     I,   for   one,   cannot  think   so.     It   is  il 

unsafe  to  affirm  anything  more  definite  than  ' 

this,  that  the  poet  is  setting  himself  against  | 
dilettantism  in  matters  where  dilettantism 

is  fatal.     A  restless  spirit  of  inquiry  into  the  i 

credentials  of  traditional  ideas,  on  whatever  i 


A  COMPARISON  11 

subject,  had  long  been  general  in  the  more 
cultivated  communities  of  Greece.  Nothing, 
however  venerable,  could  escape  a  close  and 
often  hostile  scrutiny.  In  this  movement 
Euripides  had  taken  a  leading  part,  and  he 
was  just  as  ready  in  his  latest  years — ^this 
the  Bacchce,  as  a  whole,  abundantly  proves 
— to  fight  for  the  same  cause  as  he  had  been 
when  young.  But  he  was  at  odds  with 
those  who  made  a  potent  medicine  their 
daily  beverage — ^those  young  wits  of  whom 
Aristophanes  says  that  "  the  give-me-a- 
definition  look  is  coming  out  on  you  for  all  the 
world  like  a  rash."  Euripides  had  found 
that  it  w^as  as  important  to  restrain,  even  to 
disown,  disciples  who  made  his  principles 
an  excuse  for  their  own  folly  and  mis- 
behaviour, as  to  insist  on  the  principles 
themselves.   , 

But  this  is  only  a  special  case,  striking 
though  it  may  be  as  the  final  proof  of 
spiritual  clearness  and  candour  ;  both  these 
writers  know  practically  no  limits  to  their 
range  of  scrutiny.  Think  of  the  number  of 
typical  heroes  whom  Mr.  Shaw  turns  inside 
out — ^the  different  kinds  of  men  and  women 
who  have  been,  and  are,  revered  as  pillars 
of   society    and    stalwart    witnesses   to   the 


12  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

greatness  of  humanity.  Sergius  Saranoff, 
the  splendid  warrior  who  turns  defeat  into 
victory  by  a  heroic  cavalry-charge,  and 
comes  home  to  the  plaudits  of  his  friends 
and  the  rapturous  homage  of  his  future  bride 
— ^how  he  wilts  in  the  cold  dry  air  of  Shavian 
criticism  !  His  cavalry-charge  is  an  insane 
act  of  suicide  which  succeeds  by  miracle 
because  the  enemy  run  short  of  ammunition  ; 
his  love  affair  is  an  elaborate  pose  of  courtly 
adoration  on  both  sides  ;  his  melodramatic 
affectations  are  punctured  at  every  turn  by 
the  irony  of  circumstances  or  by  the  contrast 
of  the  real  humdrum  value  of  the  Swiss 
officer  whom  he  despises. 

Candida — an  even  finer  play  than  Arms 
and  the  Man — contains  a  similar  example  of 
this  method.  There  the  character  to  be 
vivisected  like  Sergius  is  Morell  the  clergy- 
man. The  searchlight  is  turned  pitilessly 
upon  his  weakness  and  self-indulgence,  but 
— ^this  is  a  point  of  vast  importance — ^he  is 
not  the  ordinary  clergyman  of  theatrical 
satire.  He  is  neither  the  inept  fool  of  The 
Private  Secretary  nor  the  farcical  sham- 
ecclesiastic  of  The  Importance  of  Being 
Earnest.  He  is  a  good  Christian,  hard- 
working  and   sympathetic,   a   fine   speaker. 


A  COMPARISON  13 

an  intelligent  thorough  man,  a  man  even 
with  some  sense  of  humour.  We  see  through 
him  in  the  end,  but  it  is  asuredly  not  be- 
cause we  find  his  goodness  to  be  a  fraud, 
his  sympathy  a  piece  of  professional  tech- 
nique. Morell  is  no  hypocrite  grinding  his 
teeth  in  the  last  act ;  he  will  preach  just 
as  well  and  sincerely  to-morrow  —  nay, 
with  greater  sincerity  and  effect.  He  is 
found  out  simply  because  Mr.  Shaw  is  keen- 
sighted  enough  to  disregard  conventional 
reverence  for  the  popular  clergyman  and 
to  see  and  show  us  the  human  being  under- 
neath, Morell  is  as  good  as  most  people, 
but  he  is  not  so  much  better  as  we  thought 
and  as  he  thought.  He  has  mistaken  bustle 
for  life,  applause  for  conversion ;  we  all  do 
this.  The  dramatist  has  turned  aside  from 
such  easy  quarry  as  the  forger,  the  child- 
stealer,  the  betrayer  of  political  secrets, 
and  all  the  rest  of  popular  villains  ;  he  has 
studied  ordinary  people. 

If  his  work  at  any  point  impinges  upon 
melodrama,  it  is  only  that  he  may  the  more 
startlingly  convince  us  of  the  truth  by  its 
contrast  with  theatrical  absurdity.  Shaw 
begins  where  melodrama  leaves  off.  Most 
of  us  have,  in  the  presence  of  a  child,  told 


14  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

some  laughable  anecdote  which  ends  abruptly 
with  a  repartee,  whereupon  the  child  has 
asked,  "  And  what  did  the  other  man 
say  ?  "  Shaw  is  for  ever  telling  us  what 
the  other  man  says  and  does;  often  it 
is  the  best  part  of  the  story.  General 
Burgoyne,  in  The  DeviVs  Disciple,  is  de- 
scribing to  his  colleague  the  plight  of  his 
forces  when  face  to  face  with  the  American 
insurgents  : — 

Do  you  at  all  realize,  sir,  that  we  have 
nothing  standing  between  us  and  destruction 
but  our  own  bluff  and  the  sheepishness  of 
these  colonists  ?  They  are  men  of  the  same 
English  stock  as  ourselves  :  six  to  one  of 
us,  six  to  one,  sir ;  and  nearly  half  our 
troops  are  Hessians,  Brunswickers,  German 
dragoons,  and  Indians  with  scalping-knives. 
These  are  the  countrymen  on  whose  devotion 
you  rely  !  Suppose  the  colonists  find  a 
leader  !  Suppose  the  news  from  Springtown 
should  turn  out  to  mean  that  they  have 
already  found  a  leader  !  ^Vhat  shall  we  do 
then,  eh  ? 

Now  comes  the  crushing  answer  of  the 
footlights  :  — 

Our  duty,  sir,  I  presume. 

Loud   cheers  and   a   Union   Jack   in  the 


A  COMPARISON  15 

background,     with     quick     curtain  ?      No . 
Burgoyne  is  allowed  to  reply  : — 

Quite  so,  quite  so.  Thank  you,  Major 
Swindon,  thank  you.  Now  you've  settled 
the  question,  sir — ^thrown  a  flood  of  light  on 
the  situation.  What  a  comfort  to  me  to 
feel  that  I  have  at  my  side  so  devoted  and 
able  an  officer  to  support  me  in  this  emer- 
gency !  I  think,  sir,  it  will  probably  relieve 
both  our  feelings  if  we  proceed  to  hang 
this  dissenter  without  further  delay,  especi- 
ally as  I  am  debarred  by  my  principles 
from  the  customary  military  vent  for  my 
feelings. 

Or  take  a  simpler  example  from  The  Man 
of  Destiny,  Napoleon  is  addressing  a  woman 
who  has  robbed  one  of  his  officers  of  some 
papers  : — 

Napoleon  :  I  am  waiting  for  the  de- 
spatches. I  shall  take  them,  if  neces- 
sary, with  as  little  ceremony  as  the  hand- 
kerchief. 

The  Lady  :  General,  do  you  threaten 
women  ? 

Napoleon  :  Yes. 

Is  this  merely  a  theatrical  trick,  the  know- 
ledge when,  and  when  not,  to  drop  the 
^curtain  ?  Assuredly  not.  One  of  Mr.  Shaw's 
constant  aims  is  to  free  his  hearers  from  the 


16  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW  ' 

dominion  of  mere  phrases.  The  power  of 
these  catchwords  consists  in  this,  that  they 
impress  the  surface  of  the  mind  with  a  sense 
of  dignity,  above  all  of  finality.  Therefore 
the  surest  way  to  break  the  spell  is  to  refuse 
to  regard  them  as  final,  to  consider  them 
open  to  question ;  and,  in  the  drama,  to 
allow  an  opportunity  of  reply.  At  the  same 
time  as  he  clears  away  this  verbal  lumber, 
Mr.  Shaw  throws  off  allegiance  to  the  con- 
ventional hero,  the  pillar  of  society,  the 
demigod  of  the  stage.  His  plays  are  full 
of  these  discredited  pundits :  Sir  Ralph 
Bloomfield  Bonnington,  the  great  physician  ; 
Mrs.  Dudgeon,  the  godly  mater-familias ; 
Napoleon,  the  Man  of  Destiny  :  Broadbent, 
the  liberal-minded  Englishman  ;  Sir  Howard 
Hallam,  the  upright  judge ;  Morell  once 
more,  and  Major  Saranoff. 
I  Euripides  will  be  found  to  supply  a  list 
/equally  long  and  significant.  First  let  us 
look  at  Achilles  in  the  Iphigenia  at  Aulis,  sl 
character  not  unlike  Sergius  Saranoff.  This  I 
dazzling  Homeric  hero,  the  most  glorious  | 
figure  in  Greek  story,  finds  himself  here  in  i 
an  awkward  and  ludicrous  situation.  The  , 
Greek  host  has  assembled  at  Aulis,  about  to 
cross  the  sea  to  Troy  under  the  leadership 


A  COMPARISON  17 

of  Agamemnon.  But  contrary  winds  have 
been  sent  by  the  goddess  Artemis;  the 
leaders  are  in  despair,  the  army  on  the  verge 
of  mutiny.  At  this  point  the  prophet  Cal- 
chas  informs  Agamemnon  that  the  wrath  of 
Artemis  can  be  averted  only  if  Agamemnon 
will  sacrifice  Iphigenia,  his  own  daughter, 
on  the  altar  of  the  goddess.  After  much 
wretched  hesitation  the  King  consents  and 
summons  her  from  her  home  in  Argos.  The 
hideous  purpose  of  her  coming  is  concealed ; 
Agamemnon  sends  a  message  that  he  wishes 
to  marry  her  to  Achilles,  the  son  of  the 
goddess  Thetis.  But  he  tells  Achilles  noth- 
ing of  this  plot.  In  due  time  the  maiden 
arrives,  but  her  father  learns  with  horror 
that  her  mother,  his  wife,  has  shared  her 
journey.  Not  only  is  his  heart  breaking  at 
the  coming  slaughter  ;  he  knows  that  he 
will  have  to  face  his  wife's  desperate  op- 
position. For  the  moment  he  contrives  to 
withdraw,  but  in  his  absence  Clytsemnestra 
and  her  daughter  learn  from  an  old  slave  the 
true  meaning  of  the  summons.  They  decide 
to  appeal  to  Achilles,  and  when  he  comes 
upon  the  scene  Clytsemnestra  makes  a  des- 
perate yet  dignified  appeal.  What  is  his 
reply  ?     He  is  represented  by  all  tradition 


18  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

as  the  son  of  a  goddess,  by  far  the  bravest 
and  strongest  of  the  Greek  warriors ;  in 
Homer  the  very  sound  of  his  battle-cry  is 
enough  to  make  the  Trojans  flee.  How 
does  he  act  now  ?  Does  he  bestow  three  or 
four  lines  of  hurried  consolation  on  the 
distressed  ladies  and  then,  brandishing  his 
sword,  bound  away  to  hew  Agamemnon  and 
his  followers  into  a  more  reasonable  frame 
of  mind,  after  which,  no  doubt,  he  returns 
to  marry  Iphigenia  in  sober  earnest  ?  No. 
He  makes  a  speech  which  it  is  worth  while  to 
quote  at  length,  for  its  length  is  important. 
And  we  must  remember  that  all  the  while  a 
royal  lady  is  hanging  vipon  his  words  in  un- 
speakable anguish.     Thus  then  Achilles  : — 

Magnanimously  my  heart  is  lifted  on 
high  ;  it  knows  how  to  be  vexed  at  evil  and 
to  rejoice,  not  immoderately,  in  lofty  station. 
Such  men  as  I  are  led  by  deliberate  reason 
to  live  their  lives  correctly  with  the  help 
of  discretion.  Now  there  are  occasions  when 
it  is  pleasant  not  to  be  too  wise,  and  other 
occasions  when  it  is  good  to  have  useful 
wits.  I  was  reared  in  the  abode  of  Chiron, 
a  most  righteous  man,  and  so  learned  sim- 
plicity of  character.  And  as  for  the  sons  of 
Atreus,  if  they  show  themselves  good  leaders, 
I  will  obey  them ;  if  not,  I  won't.  Both 
here  and  at  Troy  I  shall  show  my  freedom 


1 


A  COMPARISON  19 

of  spirit,  while  so  far  as  in  nie  lies  I  do 
deeds  of  knightly  daring.  And  as  for  thee, 
who  hast  been  shamefully  entreated  by  thy 
dearest,  in  so  far  as  a  young  man  may,  so 
far  will  I  enfold  thee  in  my  pity,  and  never 
shall  thy  daughter  be  slain  by  her  father, 
when  she  hath  been  called  mine  ;  for  I  will 
not  give  my  person  to  thy  husband  to  weave 
his  plots  withal.  For  it  is  my  name,  even 
if  it  did  not  draw  the  sword,  that  will 
jslaughter  this  thy  child.  The  cause,  to  be 
Ipure,  is  thy  husband  ;  but  myself  will  be 
no  longer  guiltless,  if  through  me  and 
marriage  with  me  she  must  perish — she  the 
damsel  that  hath  suffered  shamefully  and 
intolerably,  and  hath  in  wondrous  unworthy 
wise  been  dishonoured.  I  am  the  basest 
Greek  alive ;  I,  even  I,  am  naught,  and 
Menelaus  is  a  true  man  ;  I  am  not  the  son 
of  Peleus  but  of  a  fiend  ;  if  my  name  in  thy 
husband's  cause  shall  slaughter  her  !  By 
Nereus  I  swear,  Nereus  reared  amid  the 
billows  of  the  sea,  the  sire  of  Thetis  my 
mother,  that  King  Agamemnon  shall  not 
touch  thy  daughter,  not  even  with  his  finger, 
not  even  touch  her  garment.  Or  Sipylus, 
on  the  frontiers  of  Heathenesse,  the  place 
from  which  these  generals  trace  their  de- 
scent, shall  be  a  city,  while  Phthia,  my  own 
home,  shall  be  forgotten  on  the  earth. 
Calchas,  the  soothsayer,  shall  rue  his  sacri- 
ficial barley-meal  and  his  holy  water.  Nay, 
what  soothsayer  is  a  man?  Few  truths  he 
speaks,  and  many  lies — and  all  by  chance  ; 
then,  when  chance  fails  him,  he  is  lost.     Not 


20                EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW  , 

because  I  wish  for  this  marriage  do  I  speak  j 

thus  ;    thousands  of  girls  pursue  me  for  my  ; 

hand.     No  ;    King  Agamemnon  has  insulted  i 

me.     He  ought  to  have  asked  my  permission  | 

that  my  name  should  be  used  to  ensnare  his  ] 

child  ;   it  was  the  thought  that  I  should  be  i 

the  bridegroom  that  tempted  Clytsemnestra  • 

most.     I  would  have  granted  this  use  of  my  ! 

name  to  the  Greeks,  if  here  lay  the  hitch  in  ; 

their  voyage  to  Troy  ;    I  would  not  have  j 

refused   to    aid   the    common    weal    of    my  | 

companions    in    arms.     But    now    I    am    a  j 

cipher  in  the  eyes  of  our  generals — to  treat  \ 

me   honourably    or    no    is    a    light    matter,  j 

Soon  shall  this  sword  make  question,  this  j 

sword  which  even  before  I  come  to   Troy  \ 
I  will  stain  with  slaughterous  drops  of  gore, 

whether  any  man  shall  tear  thy  daughter  ' 

from  me.     Keep  quiet.     I  have  appeared  to  i 

thee  a  mighty  god.     I  am  not  one.     But  I  i 
will  be  one. 


"  Was  there  ever  such  a  fool  ?  "  you  say. 
What  a  gloriously  inept  oration !  Rodo- 
montade and  conceit,  not  even  selfishness — 
it  is  nothing  more.  One  is  not  surprised 
to  hear  that  when  Achilles  appeals  to  the 
Greeks  (probably  in  a  similar  harangue) 
they  throw  stones  at  him,  and  he  comes 
rushing  back  to  Clytsemnestra  to  report 
progress,  or  rather  the  lack  of  it.  He  again 
talks   of   fighting,  but   at   this   point   Iphi- 


A  COMPARISON  21 

genia,  whose  delicate  nerves  must  have  been 
hideously  tried  by  all  this  beating  of  tom- 
toms, interferes  and  proclaims  her  readiness 
to  die  for  the  hopes  of  Greece.     Achilles, 
after  an  awkward  attempt  at  expressing  his 
admiration,  declares  that  he  will  none  the 
less  fight  to  save  her.     At  the  end  of  the 
play  we  learn  that  so  far  from  doing  this 
the  loquacious  champion  has  actually  taken 
part  in  the  ceremony  of  sacrifice  :  "  the  son 
of   Peleus,   with   the   basket   and   the   holy 
water,  ran  round  the  altar  of  the  goddess." 
Both   Achilles   and   Sergius   Saranoff   are 
made    ridiculous,    not    necessarily    by    any 
fault  of  character,  but  by  their  attempt  at 
critical  moments,  not  to  say  what  they  feel, 
but  to  say  what  they  think  they  ought  to 
feel.     Each  has  an  impossible  pose  to  keep 
up.      Sergius,    a    thoroughly    commonplace 
vulgar  person,  thinks  he  must  talk  like  the 
mediaeval  knight  and  lover,  merely  because 
he  is  a  military  officer  and  has  recently  been 
in  danger  of  his  life.     Achilles  is  a  super- 
ficial spoiled  young   fellow,  who  has  been 
taught  that  his   mother   is  a   goddess  and 
who   tries    to    live    up    to    this    impossible 
standard.     He  is  too  good  a  soldier  not  to 
know  that  any  five  (at  most)  of  the  Greeks 


22  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

are  a  match  for  him  ;  but  he  has  to  make 
himself  think  that  he  can  rout  the  whole 
host  single-handed.  Both  these  sawdust 
heroes  deceive  the  audience  for  a  long  time, 
simply  because  of  tradition.  All  the  greater 
is  the  shock  when  the  hero  is  found  out ; 
and  it  is  not  only  the  hero,  but  the  cult  of 
X  such  people,  which  quivers  under  the  blow. 
And  that  is  precisely  the  aim  both  of 
Euripides  and  of  Mr.  Shaw. 

Let  me  point  to  another  parallel.  These 
dramatists  both  handle  the  subject  of  re- 
venge— ^the  alleged  unwritten  law  that  those 
who  are  wronged  but  are  prevented  by  the 
accident  of  law  from  seeking  redress  at  the 
hands  of  the  State,  may,  with  perfect  right, 
redress  themselves.  Captain  Brasshound's 
Conversion  is  Shaw's  study  of  this  theory. 
Brassbound's  mother  has  been  neglected 
and  cheated  by  her  brother-in-law,  an  Eng- 
lish judge.  But  nothing  has  been  done 
against  which  the  law  can  be  reasonably 
invoked.  The  judge  is  respected  as  a  model 
of  respectability  and  uprightness  ;  his  nephew 
can  do  nothing  save  by  stratagem  and  the 
help  of  luck.  But  luck  does  favour  him. 
It  so  happens  that  Brassbound  has  the 
opportunity  of  taking  Sir  Howard  into  the 


A  COMPARISON  23 

North  African  desert  and  there  handing 
him  over  as  a  slave  to  an  Arab  chief.  He 
proclaims  his  intention  of  doing  so,  hurling 
bitter  reproaches  and  taunts  at  the  judge, 
who  thinks  he  has  a  right  to  rob  his  rela- 
tives and  then  to  put  on  a  robe  of  ermine  and 
sentence  his  fellow-creatures  to  vindictive 
penalties  under  the  name  of  legal  punishment. 
But  Sir  Howard's  sister-in-law,  Lady- 
Cecily,  is  with  the  party.  She  talks  to 
Brassbound  as  only  a  woman  can  who  is  a 
miracle  of  common  sense  and  tact.  Brass- 
bound  is  made  to  see  that  his  mission  of 
vengeance  is  prompted  far  less  by  love  for 
his  mother  than  by  hatred  for  his  uncle, 
and  that  even  if  it  were  not,  as  his  mother 
is  dead,  he  can  do  nothing  to  help  her  now ; 
moreover,  that  his  whole  life  has  been 
uselessly  hardened  and  withered  by  brooding 
over  his  wrongs.  But  his  quiver  contains 
one  more  shaft  :  "It  will  teach  other 
scoundrels  to  respect  widows  and  orphans. 
Do  you  forget  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
justice  ?  "  To  which  Lady  Cecily  replies  : 
"  Oh,  if  you  are  going  to  dress  yourself  up 
in  ermine  and  call  yourself  Justice,  I  give 
you  up.  You  are  just  your  uncle  over 
again ;    only  he  gets  £5000  a  year  for  it. 


24  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

and  you  do  it  for  nothing."  The  whole 
drama  leads  to  this  conclusion,  that  revenge 
is  a  waste  of  energy  and  time,  and  worse. 
Bloodshed  and  oppression  may  be  more 
intelligible  if  performed  by  way  of  reprisal ; 
they  are  none  the  less  offences  against  the 
true  economy  of  society. 

Such  seems  to  be  the  moral  of  Euripides' 
Electra  also,  which  deals  with  the  most 
famous  vendetta  in  Greek  story.  Agamem- 
non, after  sacking  Troy,  returned  to  his 
home  at  Mycenae  in  triumph,  only  to  be 
murdered  by  his  wife,  Clytsemnestra,  and  her 
lover,  ^gistlius.  At  the  time  of  his  death 
the  King  had  two  children — a  daughter, 
Electra,  and  a  son,  Orestes,  who  was  still 
a  child.  Electra,  fearing  for  the  heir  to 
the  throne,  at  once  sent  her  brother  across 
the  border,  herself  remaining  at  home. 
Clytsemnestra  and  ^Egisthus  became  joint 
rulers  of  the  country.  At  length,  when 
Orestes  had  grown  to  manhood,  he  was 
ordered  by  the  Delphic  oracle  to  go  home 
and  slay  his  mother  and  i3^gisthus  in  requital 
for  his  father's  murder.  This  he  did,  but 
avenging  fiends,  the  Furies,  pursued  him 
for  his  matricide,  until  he  was  freed  from 
them  by  Apollo. 


A  COMPARISON  25 

Such  is  the  story  in  outhne — a  magnificent 
subject  for  a  playwright.  But  clearly  the 
dramatist's  point  of  view  will  make  a  world 
of  difference.  A  poet  penetrated  by  belief 
in  the  orthodox  Olympian  religion  will  lay 
tremendous  stress  on  the  fact  that  Orestes 
was  impelled  to  his  frightful  deed  by  the 
direct  and  inevitable  decree  of  Pleaven  ;  he 
will  not  admit  the  kinship  between  the 
victim  and  the  slayer  to  be  anything  more 
than  an  important  detail.  This  is  the 
method  which  ^schylus  has  followed.  Eurip- 
ides' outlook  is  very  different,  even  the 
opposite.  In  effect  he  says  :  "  The  kinship 
between  the  avenger  and  his  victim  is — 
must  be — ^the  cardinal  point.  If  the  oracle 
commanded  Orestes  to  do  this  thing,  so 
much  the  worse  for  the  oracle."  And  so 
he  insists  on  studying  the  grim  old  tale  from 
the  human  standpoint,  depicting,  as  does 
Shaw,  the  effects  of  a  vendetta  cherished 
for  many  years.  Orestes,  having  lived 
abroad,  has  something  (but  not  very  much) 
of  the  many-sidedness  which  marks  a  well- 
developed  man.  But  Electra  all  these  years 
has  lived  on  the  thought  of  her  murdered 
father  and  on  the  passionate  thirst  for  more 
blood,  even  that  of  her  mother.     If  Agamem- 


26  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

non  has  been  murdered,  that  is  no  reason, 
the  poet  thinks,  why  his  daughter  should 
commit  a  slow  moral  suicide.  She  and  her 
brother  ruin  their  lives,  as  well  as  destroy 
their  mother  and  ^Egisthus,  by  their  servility 
to  a  barren  creed. 

There  is  more  than  this.  Both  Shaw  and 
Euripides  have  felt  that,  even  granting  the 
justice  and  wisdom  of  revenge,  its  pursuers 
can  hold  to  their  purpose  only  by  keeping 
their  eyes  closed  to  some  of  the  facts.  It  may 
be  exaggeration  to  exclaim  tout  corajprendre 
c^est  tout  pardonner,  but  every  villain  has  some 
redeeming  feature  ;  nay,  many  "  villains  " 
are  not  villains  at  all.  Quite  legitimately, 
both  writers  have  made  their  black  sheep  as 
white  as  possible.  For  Sir  Howard  Hallam 
there  are  real  excuses  enough  to  show  us 
that  he  is  at  least  as  good  as  the  average 
man.  Brassbound  himself  at  length  de- 
clares :  "  My  uncle  is  no  worse  a  man  than 
myself — better,  most  likely,  for  he  has  a 
better  head  and  a  higher  place.  Well,  I 
took  him  for  a  villain  out  of  a  story-book." 

What  of  Euripides  ?  He  remembers  that 
the  murder  of  Agamemnon  happened  many 
years  before.  Why  should  not  the  mur- 
derers have  become  better  instead  of  worse  ? 


A  COMPARISON  27 

And  is  not  an  act  of  revenge,  like  that  of 
Orestes,  carried  out  (as  it  had  to  be)  by- 
craft,  necessarily  repulsive  ?  So  it  comes 
about  that  our  sympathies  are  with  uEgisthus 
and  Clytsemnestra,  not  with  their  foes, 
^gisthus  is  accosted  by  Orestes  while  on 
his  farm  celebrating  a  rustic  sacrifice.  He 
genially  invites  the  strangers  to  join  in  the 
festival,  and  is  struck  dead  from  behind 
while  engaged  in  an  act  of  religion.  Clytaem- 
nestra  is  lured  to  her  daughter's  house  by 
the  most  dastardly  excuse  which  can  be 
imagined.  A  message  is  sent  to  her  that 
Electra  has  given  birth  to  a  child.  It  is 
Electra's  own  invention,  which  she  thus 
expounds : 

Announce  that  I  have  been  delivered  of  a 
male  child,  ten  days  ago,  and  that  the  time 
of  my  purification  is  thus  at  hand.  She  will 
come  when  she  hears  that  I  have  been 
through  the  pains  of  childbirth  ;  aye,  and 
she  will  weep  over  the  low  estate  of  my 
babe.  Then  when  once  she  has  come,  of 
course,  it  is  her  death. 

Could  any  speech,  any  situation,  show 
more  vividly  the  master-hand  ?  In  a  few 
chill  words  it  portrays  the  hideous  poisoning 
of    all    natural    love,    sympathy,    decency. 


28  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW  *| 

which  we  noted  a  moment  ago  ;  it  reminds 
us  further  that  it  is  precisely  because 
Electra  has  not  had  children  that  she  can 
thus,  in  the  course  of  years,  be  narrowed 
and  blighted  into  a  fiend  ;  and  it  makes  sure, 
not  only  that  Clytaemnestra  will  come,  but 
that  she  will  come  with  just  those  emotions 
stirring  her  which  make  a  woman  most 
sincere  and  loving — at  the  moment  when  she 
is  to  be  put  to  death,  and  that  too  by  the 
help  of  one  who  should  have  been  reminded, 
if  not  by  her  heart,  yet  by  her  own  lie,  how 
near  and  precious  the  victim  should  seem 
to  her  own  children.  The  act  of  blood  is 
performed,  and  the  two  awake  to  a  tardy 
repentance,  even  then  not  reflecting  that 
perhaps  years  ago  their  mother  had  her 
tardy  repentance  too. 

One  might  offer  many  other  such  examples 
from  Euripides  of  traditional  heroes  on 
whom  the  light  of  common  day  is  poured 
with  woeful  results  for  the  tinsel  and 
sham  jewellery — Jason,  for  instance  ;  Jason 
whom  so  many  generations  have  admired 
as  the  embodiment  of  chivalry,  journeying 
to  a  far  country  in  quest  of  the  Fleece,  that 
very  symbol  of  romance,  and  from  the 
edge  of  the  world  bringing  with  him  Medea, 


A  COMPARISON  29 

who  left  all  for  love.     So  have  we  all  regarded 
Jason.     But    Euripides,    whose    interest    in 
and  sympathy  for  women  surpassed  that  of 
any  leminist    of   antiquity,    prefers   to   ask 
himself    what    happened    next.      V\^at    of 
Jason  as  a  married  man,   settled  down  to 
"  getting   on,"   with   no   definite   profession 
and  few  assets  beside  the  Golden  Fleece  ? 
Could    his    wife    prove    a    social    success  ? 
Would  she  aid  her  husband's  ambition  by 
showing    herself    a    tactful    hostess    and    a 
grande  dame  in  general  ?     "  Absurd,"   you 
say,    "  positively    vulgar."     Perhaps.     And 
there   is   very  real   tragedy  hovering  round 
a  haughty,  noble,  simple  nature  forced  to 
live  in  an  alien  atmosphere.     If   Euripides 
chooses  to  interest  himself  in  life  as  it  is, 
rather  than  in  magnificent  episodes  of  the 
world's  youth,  you  may  call  him  Philistine 
if  you  will,  but  you  cannot  argue  with  a 
point    of     view.      His    treatment    of    this 
situation    in    the    Medea    is,    perhaps,    his 
greatest    and    most    poignantly    real    work. 
The  barbarian  princess  appears  in  the  quiet 
aristocratic   little    courts    of   Greece   like   a 
destroying  flame.     At  lolchos,  the  home  of 
Jason,  she  murders  the  old  King  Pelias,  his 
enemy,  by  her  savage  cunning — the  famous 


1 


30  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

trick    of    the    rejuvenating    cauldron.     Her 
husband  and  she,  with  their  children,   are 
forced  to  go  into  exile  and  find  a  home  at  \ 
Corinth.     There    Jason,    still    with    no    re- 
sources   but    his    ancestry    and    his    sword, 
determines    to    mend     his     fortunes     by — 
marriage !     His    view,    apparently,    is   that 
Medea  is  not  exactly  his  wife — he  is,  indeed, 
very  hazy  about  this — and  that  she  ought 
not  to  object  if,  by  a  brilliant  marriage,  he 
secures  his  own  prospects  (for  he  intends  to 
ally  himself  to  the  royal  family)  and  inci- 
dentally  hers  and  those  of  their  children. 
Anyhow,  Medea  is  only  ''  a  native."     Learn- 
ing   his    purpose,    she    breaks    forth    into 
passionate  reproach  and  recital  of  all  that 
she  has  done  for  him.     Without  her  magical 
aid  he  would  never  have  won  the  Fleece, 
nay,  he  could  not  have  escaped  from  Colchis 
with  his  life.     By  thus  assisting  him   she 
has   been   forced   to   leave   her    home    and 
country,  to  entrust  all  her  future  to  him. 
Jason  is  but  little  ruffled  by  this  terrible 
appeal.     He  feels  that  the  benefits  she  has 
wrought  are  indeed  great — "  You  have  not 
done    badly,"    he    remarks — but    that    the 
return  he  has  already  made  is  a  full  quittance ; 
as  thus  : — 


A  COMPARISON  31 

First  of  all,  you  live  in  Greece,  instead  of 
a  barbarous  land.  You  now  understand 
justice  and  obedience  to  law,  in  place  of 
arbitrary  violence.  Then,  all  the  Greeks 
know  of  your  wisdom  and  you  have  become 
a  celebrity,  whereas,  if  you  had  still  been 
living  at  the  end  of  the  world,  you  would 
never  have  been  heard  of. 

So  might  an  impresario  address  a  wonder- 
ful soprano  whom  he  had  "  discovered  "  in 
Queensland  or  Dakota.  We  have  travelled 
far  indeed  from  the  mediaeval  knight  and 
his  distressed  damsel.  The  sequel,  the 
frightful  overthrow  of  all  Jason's  happiness 
and  hopes,  does  not  here  concern  us. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  our  other  topics.  First 
of  these  must  come  social  questions.  On  the 
Euripidean  and  Shavian  treatment  of  this 
subject  alone  a  volume  could  be  written,  but 
we  shall  here  pass  over  it  lightly.  The  two 
great  social  questions  which  attract  Mr. 
Shaw  beyond  any  other  are  the  relations  of 
the  sexes  and  economic  inequality  :  he  is  a 
feminist  and  a  socialist.  Euripides  also  is 
deeply  concerned  about  such  problems, 
but  far  more  in  the  position  of  women 
than  in  that  of  the.pxjor^  for  the  sufficient 
reason  that  economic  inequality  seemed 
to   him,    and  indeed    was,    less    dangerous 


32  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

than  the  legal  and  social  inequality  of  the 
sexes. 

The  reader  does  not  need  to  be  reminded  of 
the  industry  and  the  wit  which  Mr.  Shaw 
has  expended  upon  the  problems  of  poverty. 
Two  whole  plays  are  devoted  to  them — 
Major  Barbara  and  Widowers^  Houses. 
John  BulVs  Other  Island  and  Mrs.  Warren's 
Profession  deal  with  the  same  theme,  though 
there  it  is  interwoven  with  other  matters, 
in  the  first  with  imperial  politics  and  in  the 
second  with  the  sex-question.  Whatever 
one  thinks  of  Mr.  Shaw's  conclusions,  no  one 
save  a  partisan  journalist  can  deny  the  sin- 
cerity and  the  public  spirit  of  liis  method 
and  aims.  That  which  in  Euripides  corre- 
sponds to  this  feature  of  Shaw's  work 
is  his  indignation,  not  so  much  against 
j^  financial  inequality  as  against  political 
j  I  inequality  and  bureaucracy.  He  loves  to 
I  [inveigh  against  officials,  whether  they  are 
'  rulers  and  generals,  or  whether  they  are 
mere  Bumbles,  and  he  is  never  weary  of 
praising  the  middle  class.  The  poet  seems 
to  have  been  a  very  moderate  democrat. 
5  He  distrusts  the  rich  and  nobly-born,  but 
he  also  fears  the  masses.  Probably  he 
would  have  liked  to  see  a  return  to  the 


A  COMPARISON  83 

Solonian  regime,  to  give  prima  facie  political 
equality  to  all  citizens,  with  the  important 
reservation  that  the  archonship  and  the 
board  of  generals  should  be  filled  from 
certain  classes  only.  Against  the  oligarchy 
of  the  rich  and  the  anarchy  of  the  mob  the 
middle  class,  according  to  him,  formed  an 
effective,  and  the  only,  safeguard. 

More  startling  than  this,  to  an  Athenian 
at  any  rate,  was  his  championship  of  slaves. 
The  statement  of  Aristotle,  a  man  almost  as 
broad-minded  as  profound,  that  a  slave  is 
a  living  tool,  expresses  the  popular  opinion 
and  the  legal  view.  Euripides  is  apparently 
the  only  man  of  his  day  who  showed  any 
sort  of  real  sympathy  for  slaves  ;  his  name- 
less messengers,  attendants,  old  men,  and 
the  like,  form  a  noble  company  of  obscure 
and  faithful  ones. 

But  by  far  the  strongest  claim  of  Eurip- 
ides to  renown  as  a  social  theorist  is  his 
study  of  women  —their  character,  their  actual 
position  in  society,  and  their  possibilities. 
It  is  a  feature  in  the  work  of  this  dramatist 
which,  before  any  other  attribute,  has  ar- 
rested attention  in  his  own  day  and  in  every 
other  age  in  which  he  has  been  intelligently 
studied  ;    it  accounts,  probably,  for  several 


34  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

anecdotes  about  his  life.  There  is  hardly  a 
single  extant  tragedy  of  his  which  does  not 
contain  some  wonderfully  penetrating  and 
illuminating  study  of  female  character.  But 
far  more  than  this  :  several  of  his  finest' 
works  are  devoted  primarily,  almost  ex- 
clusively, to  this  theme— ^the  Medea,  the 
Hippolytus,  the  Alcestis,  and  the  Andro- 
mache. In  all  these  instances  Euripides' 
opinions  and  emotions  are  plain  and  ex- 
pressed with  admirable  incisiveness ;  and 
in  all  he  is  observing,  not  the  heroine  of 
legend,  but  the  contemporary  Athenian 
woman.  In  all,  too,  he  is  striving  to  create 
a  more  healthy  public  opinion.  It  has  been 
said  that  "  of  all  ancient  moralists,  he  is 
alone,  or  alone  with  Plato,  in  showing  an 
adequate  notion  of  that  radical  disease,  an 
imperfect  ideal  of  woman,  of  which,  more 
than  of  anything  else,  ancient  civilization 
perished."  Against  this  disease  no  man  ex- 
cept Plato  struggled  so  bravely  as  Euripides, 
and  not  even  Plato  with  equal  discernment. 

It  is  not  so  much  that  he  admires  women, 
still  less  that  he  regards  them  as  superior 
to   men ;    his   subtle  and  true   delineations   \ 
bring  out  as  many  favilts  as  virtues.     He  is 
impressed  by  two  things':    first,  the  sorrows 


A  COMPARISON  35 

of  women,  whether  they  arise  from  the 
indifference  of  individuals  and  of  the  State, 
or  whether  they  are  the  special  pains  and 
hardships  which  no  reform  can  lift  from 
their  shoulders  ;  second,  the  danger  to  the 
community  which  lies  in  allowing  a  great 
mass  of  persons  to  pass  their  lives  and  spend 
their  energies  within  its  borders  without 
attempting  to  understand  them,  without 
forming  some  sort  of  working  hypothesis, 
good  or  bad,  about  their  function  as  a  part 
of  the  community — without,  in  short,  digest- 
ing them.  He  thinks  of  women  as  a  man 
of  human  sympathies,  and  as  a  citizen  of 
political  foresight. 

In  describing  the  sorrows  of  women,  then, 
Euripides  shows  a  knowledge  of  the  female 
heart  which  excites  the  liveliest  interest  and 
wonder.  We  are  told  that  he  was  twice 
married,  and  unhappily.  Unhappy  his 
married  life  may  have  been  according  to  the 
gossips,  but  there  is  good  evidence  that  the 
poet  talked  to  his  wife,  and  more,  that  he 
let  her  talk  to  him  ;  still  more,  that  while 
Ishe  talked  he  listened.  No  man  unaided 
jcould  have  written  that  marvellous  first 
speech  of  Medea,  a  foreigner  at  Corinth, 
seeing  herself  and  her  young  children  on  the 


36  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

point  of  being  deserted  by  Jason.  She  is 
addressing  the  company  of  Corinthian  ladies 
who  have  come  to  condole  with  her. 


Now,  as  for  me,  this  unlooked-for  hap-  \ 
pening  hath  broken  my  heart.  Friends,  I  i 
am  lost.  The  joy  of  life  hath  left  me,  and  I 
I  fain  would  die.  For,  as  ye  know  well,  he,  i 
my  husband,  in  whom  were  all  my  hopes,  ,i 
hath  shown  himself  an  utter  villain.  Of  ^ 
all  creatures  that  have  life  and  reason  we  i 
women  are  the  most  unhappy.  For,  first,  j 
by  payment  of  much  wealth  we  must  needs! 
purchase  a  husband,  a  master  of  our  persons.  ,| 
.  .  .  And  herein  lies  a  fearful  peril  :  will  he  j 
be  base  or  good  ?  For  the  wife  is  disgraced  li 
by  divorce,  yet  to  refuse  marriage  is  im-l 
possible.  Then,  when  a  woman  has  come ) 
to  live  with  a  strange  character  and  strange  i 
ways  of  life,  she  must  needs  have  second-! 
sight  (for  her  past  experience  tells  heri 
nothing)  if  she  is  to  know  how  to  deal  with] 
her  husband.  If,  then,  we  solve  this  riddle, ) 
and  the  spouse  who  dwells  with  us  proves  i 
not  a  brutal  yoke-fellow,  our  life  is  to  be', 
envied  ;  otherwise,  death  were  best.  Whenij 
a  man  is  wearied  of  his  home,  he  walks! 
abroad  and  relieves  his  spirit  of  its  distasted 
in  the  society  of  some  friend  or  companion  ;:< 
but  we  are  forced  to  look  to  one  person' 
only.  And  they  say  of  us  that  we  pass  i 
within  the  house  a  life  unthreatened  by  ■ 
any  peril,  whereas  they  engage  in  the  toil/ 
of  war.     Fools  !     I  had  rather   fight  three  i 

■M 
-1 


A  COMPARISON  37 

pitched  battles  than  face  the  pains  of  child- 
birth once.  But  no  more.  What  is  true 
of  me  cannot  be  said  of  thee.  Thou  hast 
this  city  and  thy  father's  house,  a  happy 
life,  and  the  company  of  friends  ;  while  I, 
deserted  and  homeless,  am  outraged  by  my 
husband,  I  that  have  been  reft  from  a 
foreign  land  and  have  no  mother,  no  brother, 
no  kinsman,  to  whom,  as  to  a  haven,  I  may 
flee  from  this  calamity.  This,  then,  will  I 
ask  of  thee,  this  only.  If  I  discover  some 
means,  some  plot,  whereby  to  win  revenge 
for  these  my  wrongs  from  my  husband, 
from  him  that  gave  his  daughter,  and  from 
herself,  be  silent.  In  all  things  else  a 
woman  is  full  of  dread  and  dares  not  look 
upon  battles  and  the  sword  ;  but  if  she  is 
wronged  in  her  affections,  there  is  no  other 
soul  so  bloodthirsty. 

Nothing  need,  or  can  by  me,  be  added  to 
the  earlier  part  of  this.  It  is  only  one 
example  among  many  that  could  be  cited 
of  the  poet's  subtle  sympathy  and  under- 
standing of  women — an  understanding,  no 
doubt,  helped  by  his  love  for  children  ;  the 
yearning  of  a  parent  over  his  child  has  never 
been  expressed  more  poignantly  than  by  a 
few  verses  in  this  very  play  of  Medea.  But 
observe  particularly  the  last  few  words  in 
which  Medea  hints  to  the  Corinthian  ladies 
that  she  has  a  plan  of  vengeance.     It  is  in 


38  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW  \ 

this  way  that  the  great  speech  which  I  have  \ 
tried  to  render  brings  us  to  the  second  part  j 
of  this  subject,  Euripides'  feeUng  that  the  j 
contemporary  attitude  towards  women  was  ) 
a  menace  to  society.  He  understood  the  i 
frightful  explosive  force  of  a  nature  adult  I; 
in  its  passions,  its  will,  its  audacity.  But  in  i 
intellectual  wealmess  and  unbalanced  im-  | 
pulsiveness  a  child.  At  all  costs,  he  felt,  j 
we  must  recast  our  social  system  ;  we  must  j 
open  to  women  activities  which  can  give  j 
their  natures  space  to  develop  healthily.  1 1 
suspect  that  he  would  have  assented  to  the  | 
epigram  which  declares  that  "  the  last  thing  | 
man  will  civilize  is  woman "  ;  but  the  j 
longer  Athens  put  off  the  attempt  the  greater  i 
was  the  danger.  This  belief,  that  the  harem-  I 
system  which  prevailed  at  Athens  was  aj 
real  peril,  appears  repeatedly.  In  the  An- 1 
dromache  he  is  principally  concerned  to  I 
show  us  the  evil  which  may  be  wrought  by] 
an  impulsive  untrained  woman,  denied  all  j 
interest  in  outside  things  but  allowed  de- 1 
spotic  power  in  her  own  house.  The  curse  j 
of  the  Athenian  system  was,  according  to  I 
him,  that  it  stunted  all  a  woman's  good  If 
qualities,  while  it  left  her  free  to  indulge  ) 
her  cruel  or  thoughtless  whims.     To  quote  i 

i 


A  COMPARISON  39 

the  Medea  once  more,  the  female  sex  is 
called  "  helpless  for  good,  but  of  all  mischief 
plotters  most  cunning."  As  in  that  play  he 
has  painted  a  woman  of  pride  and  courage 
goaded  by  her  wrongs  into  crime,  so  in  the 
Andromache  he  presents  us  with  a  weaker, 
more  febrile,  girl  led  by  her  own  unguided 
impulses — still  into  crime. 

Two  remarks  should  here  be  offered.  The 
first  is  that  Euripides'  lesson  applies,  at  the 
utmost,  only  partly  to  us.  On  any  view, 
the  condition  of  women  is  not  now  so 
spiritually  and  intellectually  debased  as  it 
was  in  Athens  during  the  fifth  century  B.C. 
The  second  remark  is  still  more  germane 
to  our  subject.  Allowing  for  differences  in 
circumstances,  it  can  be  said  that  Mr.  Shaw 
takes  up  much  the  same  position  as  Eurip- 
ides. Those  who  have  read  that  powerful 
and  terrible  drama,  Mrs,  Warren's  Pro- 
fession, will  remember  that  Mrs.  Warren 
devotes  herself  to  the  basest  and  most  anti- 
social of  all  trades  just  because  she  is  forced 
into  it  by  the  social  and  economic  conditions 
which  make  everything  else  but  starvation 
impossible.  Man  and  Superman,  magnifi- 
cent as  it  is,  need  not  detain  us  now.  No 
comparison  with  the  work  of  Euripides  is 


r 


40  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

here  possible,  as  the  play  is  based  on  a  con- 
ception of  woman  which  was  a  sheer  im- 
possibility to  any  Greek  of  classical  days. 

It  is  time  that  we  turned  to  a  very  obvious 
feature  of  both  these  writers — a  feature 
observed  by  the  most  casual  reader,  and 
sometimes  held  to  be  Mr.  Shaw's  single 
literary  virtue.  I  mean  the  directness,  wit, 
and  athletic  brilliance  of  their  style.  From 
>\  Euripides   one   may   select   a   fine   piece   of 

invective  uttered  by  the  captive  Andro- 
mache, the  widow  of  Hector,  when  she  has 
been  shamefully  lured  to  her  death  by  the 
King  of  Sparta  : — 

Ye  hated  wretches,  spurned  of  all  mankind, 
Tenants  of  Sparta,  souls  of  crawling  craft. 
Plotters  of  villainy  and  lords  of  lies. 
Whose  souls  are  rotten,  yea,  a  labyrinth 
Of  cheating,  this  your  glory  'mid  the  Greeks 
On  sin  is  founded  and  by  sin  has  thriven  ! 
What  foulness  know  ye  not  ?     Love  ye  not  blood 
And  shameful  gains  ?     Are  ye  not  ever  found 
With  lips  confirming  what  your  hearts  deny  ? 
Curses  upon  you  !     But,  for  me,  my  death 
Hath  lost  its  sting — thou'rt  cheated.     Then  I  died 
When  hapless  Troy  was  taken,  and  my  lord 
Fell  like  a  chieftain,  he  whose  spear  full  oft 
Chased  thee  from  land  to  quake  upon  thy  ship. 
Now,  lo  !    thou'rt  come  in  panoply  of  war 
To  fright  a  woman,  and  to  slay  me.     Aye, 
Slay  on  !     These  lips  shall  never  beg  my  life 
From  child  of  thine  or  fawn  on  such  as  thou  ! 
Mighty  art  thou  in  Sparta  ?     So  was  I 
Erstwhile  at  Troy.     And  if  I  fall  to-day. 
Forbear  thy  vaunts.     Soon  may'st  thou  fall  as  low. 


A  COMPARISON  41 

Or  take  this  passage  from  the  Iphigenia  at 
Aulis,  in  which  the  young  princess  makes 
her  magnificent  avowal  that  she  is  ready  to 
die  that  she  may  give  the  Greek  fleet  a  fair 
wind  for  Troy  : — 

Hellas,  mightiest  of  nations,   now  on   me  bends   all  her 

gaze ;  '^^ 

I  can  ope  the  broad  ^^Igean,  I  can  Ilion's  towers  raze  ! 
I  can  drown  in  blood  of  Trojans  Helen's  flight  and  Paris' 

crime  ; 
I  can  school  each  lewd  barbarian,  through  the  years  of 

after-time, 
Ne'er  again  to  steer  his  pinnace  to  the  happy  shores  of 

Greece. 
Dying,  I  shall  save  a  nation,  and  my  fame  shall  aye  in- 
crease, 
Raising  me  in  death  to  greatness,  Hellas'  saviour,  blest 

indeed. 
Nay,  'twere  ill  my  life  to  cherish,  shunning  thus  for  her 

to  bleed. 
I  was  born  the  child  of  Hellas,  not,  O  mother,  only  thine. 
See,  ten  thousand  armed  heroes  !     See  their  linked  bucklers' 

line  ! 
See   ten    thousand   straining   oarsmen,    every   heart    with 

courage  high. 
Ready  in  their  country's  quarrel  to  avenge  her  wrongs  or 

die  I 
Shall  the   life   of   one  weak   woman   baffle   all   this   fair 

emprise  ? 
Nay,  'twere  sin  !     What  guiltless  answer  to  our  falt'ring 

lips  could  rise  ? 
Think  once  more  !     Achilles  yonder,  would'st  thou  see  him 

strive — and  fall — 
Battling  with  the  host  of  Argos  single-handed  at  my  call  ? 
Twere  a  gain  one  man  should  live,  were  e'en  ten  thousand 

maids  the  price. 
Yea,  and  Artemis  demands  my  body  to  her  sacrifice. 
When  the  hand  divine  hath  beckoned,  shall  a  mortal  shun 

her  fate  ? 


42  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

Never  !     To  the  hopes  of  Hellas  I  my  being  consecrate. 

Slay  me  !  Vanquish  Troy  !  I  die  not  childless,  since 
through  ages  down 

Lives,  in  place  of  home  and  children,  this  my  never- 
dimmed  renown  ! 

From  Mr.  Shaw's  work  let  us  select  this 
fine  piece  of  declamation  from  Ccesar  and 
Cleopatra,  Julius  Caesar,  walking  alone  by 
night  across  the  Egyptian  desert,  comes 
upon  the  Sphinx  : — 

Hail,  Sphinx  :  salutation  from  Julius 
Caesar  !  I  have  wandered  in  many  lands, 
seeking  the  lost  regions  from  which  my 
birth  into  this  world  exiled  me,  and  the 
company  of  creatures  such  as  I  myself.  I 
have  found  flocks  and  pastures,  men  and 
cities,  but  no  other  Caesar,  no  air  native  to 
me,  no  man  kindred  to  me,  none  who  can 
do  my  day's  deed,  and  think  my  night's 
thought.  In  the  little  world  yonder.  Sphinx, 
my  place  is  as  high  as  yours  in  this 
great  desert ;  only  I  wander,  and  you  sit 
still ;  I  conquer,  and  you  endure  ;  I  work 
and  wonder,  you  watch  and  wait ;  I  look 
up  and  am  dazzled,  look  down  and  am 
darkened,  look  round  and  am  puzzled, 
whilst  your  eyes  never  turn  from  looking 
out — out  of  the  world — ^to  the  lost  region — 
the  home  from  which  we  have  strayed. 
Sphinx,  you  and  I,  strangers  to  the  race  of 
men,  are  no  strangers  to  one  another  :  have 
I  not  been  conscious  of  you  and  of  this 
place  since  I  was  born  ?     Rome  is  a  mad- 


A  COMPARISON  43 

man's  dream :  this  is  my  reality.  These 
starry  lamps  of  yours  I  have  seen  from  afar 
in  Gaul,  in  Britain,  in  Spain,  in  Thessaly, 
signalling  great  secrets  to  some  eternal 
sentinel  below,  whose  post  I  never  could 
find.  And  here  at  last  is  their  sentinel — 
an  image  of  the  constant  and  immortal 
part  of  my  life,  silent,  full  of  thought,  alone 
in  the  silver  desert. 

Lastly,  here  is  a  trenchant  passage  from 
Major  Barbara,  The  self-made  millionaire 
is  discussing  with  his  aristocratic  son  the 
profession  which  the  latter  should  choose. 
After  several  of  his  suggestions  have  been 
declined,  the  father  goes  to  the  point  : — 

Undershaft  :  Well,  come  !  Is  there  any- 
thing you  know  or  care  for  ? 

Stephen  :  I  know  the  difference  between 
right  and  wrong. 

Undershaft  :  You  don't  say  so  !  What ! 
No  capacity  for  business,  no  knowledge  of 
law,  no  sympathy  with  art,  no  pretension 
to  philosophy  ;  only  a  simple  knowledge  of 
the  secret  that  has  puzzled  all  the  philoso- 
phers, baffled  all  the  lawyers,  muddled  all 
the  men  of  business,  and  ruined  most  of 
the  artists  :  the  secret  of  right  and  wrong. 
Why,  man,  you're  a  genius,  a  master  of 
masters,  a  god  !     At  twenty-four,  too  ! 

Stephen  :  You  are  pleased  to  be  facetious. 
I  pretend  to  nothing  more  than  any  honour- 


44  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

able  English  gentleman  claims  as  his  birth- 
right. 

Undershaft  :  Oh,  that's  everybody's 
birthright.  Look  at  poor  little  Jenny  Hill, 
the  Salvation  lassie  !  She  would  think  you 
were  laughing  at  her  if  you  asked  her  to 
stand  up  in  the  street  and  teach  grammar  or 
geography  or  mathematics  or  even  drawing- 
room  dancing ;  but  it  never  occurs  to  her 
to  doubt  that  she  can  teach  morals  and 
religion.  You  are  all  alike,  you  respectable 
people.  You  can't  tell  me  the  bursting 
strain  of  a  ten-inch  fgun,  which  is  a  very 
simple  matter  ;  but  you  all  think  you  can 
tell  me  the  bursting  strain  of  a  man  under 
temptation.  You  daren't  handle  high  ex- 
plosives ;  but  you're  all  ready  to  handle 
honesty  and  truth  and  justice  and  the  whole 
duty  of  man,  and  kill  one  another  at  that 
game.     What  a  country  !     What  a  world  ! 

Finally,  there  is  a  likeness  between  these 
two  men  in  the  treatment  they  have  received 
from  their  contemporaries.  That  both  have 
attracted  vast  attention  is  a  point  which 
needs  no  proof;  but  combined  with  this 
we  notice  a  strong  reaction.  Euripides 
produced  plays  at  Athens  for  about  fifty 
years ;  only  five  times  was  he  awarded  the 
first  prize  in  the  dramatic  contest,  and  one 
of  these  victories  was  obtained  after  his 
death.     The  official  leaders  of  public  opinion 


A  COMPARISON  45 

scouted  himj^  men /fc)  their  position  could 
not  support  a  writer  who  habitually  ridiculed 
the  claims  of  the  Delphic  oracle,  who  showed 
scant  respect  even  for  Athena,  the  guardian- 
goddess  of  the  State,  who  hated  officialism, 
who  discussed  at  large  the  rights  and  the 
feelings  of  mere  slaves,  who  appeared  to 
think  that  women  had  souls,  perhaps  even 
a  social  value,  who  was  for  ever  examining 
and  condemning  the  most  revered  traditions, 
who  was,  in  short,  "queer."  We  have 
learned  from  a  recently-discovered  manu- 
script that  he  was  indicted  by  the  statesman 
Cleon  for  impiety.  The  chief  voice  of  this 
hostility  was  the  comic  dramatist  Aristoph- 
anes, as  great  a  genius  as  Euripides  him- 
self, whose  magnificent  comedy  of  The  Frogs 
is  in  the  main  an  elaborate  attack  upon 
Euripides'  teaching,  and  who  is  never  weary 
of  directing  laughable  and  trenchant  gibes 
against  the  great  apostle  of  rationalism. 

Much  the  same  is  the  position  of  Mr.  Shaw. 
No  statesman  brings  him  to  trial  for  impiety, 
perhaps  because  we  do  not  agree  as  to  what 
piety  is  ;  but  the  role  of  Aristophanes  is 
filled  with  painstaking  emulation  by  the 
Press.  It  must  be  allowed  that  the  on- 
slaughts of  our  journalists  are  not  so  brilliant 


46  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

or  so  searching  as  those  of  the  Athenian 
dramatist,  but  they  do  their  best.  Faihng 
the  genius  of  Aristophanes,  they  fall  back 
on  his  unfairness  and  his  sneers.  To  judge 
from  The  Frogs  one  would  suppose  Euripides, 
not  a  great  but  misguided  and  misguiding 
poet ;  rather  a  mere  scribbling,  pernicious 
fool.  A  weekly  review  of  the  highest 
standing  published  an  article  on  one  of  Mr. 
Shaw's  volumes  in  which  the  word  "  jester  " 
was  employed  a  dozen  times.  It  is  a 
significant  word.  The  English  publicist 
knows  well  that  the  shortest  way  to  rob  a 
man  of  influence  is  to  call  him  amusing, 
the  rooted  belief  of  the  British  public  being 
that  if  a  man  is  funny  he  cannot  be  in  earnest. 
Accordingly  Mr.  Shaw  is  dubbed  "  the 
licensed  jester  " — ^that  is  to  say  :  "  This  is  a 
funny  man ;  therefore  you  may  read  and 
enjoy  him  without  feeling  bound  to  pay  any 
respect  to  what  he  says."  And  the  news- 
papers have  one  vast  advantage  over  Aris- 
tophanes. Few  men  in  Athens  took  him 
seriously,  while  to-day  most  people  are 
positively  hypnotized  by  whatever  they  see 
in  print  if  only  it  is  repeated  often  enough. 
And  it  is  repeated,  very  often.  The  de- 
liberate and  unending  misrepresentation  of 


A  COMPARISON  47 

Mr.  Shaw  by  hosts  of  journahsts  who  know 
better  is  a  public  scandal. 

Still,  there  is  another  side  to  the  picture. 
That  Euripides  should  be  hated  by  Cleon, 
and  Shaw  despised  by  Broadbent,  is  natural 
enough.  They  have  both  found  a  recom- 
pense in  the  delighted  respect  of  their 
younger  contemporaries.  What  especially 
annoyed  Aristophanes  was  the  unbounded 
influence  which  Euripides  wielded  over 
educated  young  men.  The  future  was  with 
him,  and  during  the  centuries  which  have 
passed  since  his  death  few  Greek  writers 
have  enjoyed  so  continuous  and  discrimi- 
nating a  popularity.  When  the  contest  in 
the  world  of  the  dead,  the  contest  between 
iEschylus  and  Euripides  portrayed  in  The 
Frogs,  is  about  to  begin,  iEschylus  complains 
that  he  is  at  a  disadvantage  because  he  has 
left  his  works  on  earth  alive,  while  his  rival's 
plays  have  died  with  him.  Never  was  a 
prophecy  more  utterly  refuted  by  time. 
It  is  not  unreasonable  to  prophesy  similar 
permanence  for  the  dramas  of  Mr.  Shaw. 
No  work  will  die  which  is  so  instinct  with 
wit,  with  breadth  of  mind  and  lively  in- 
terest, with  such  a  passionate  zeal  for  the 
common     health.      Already,     as     did     his 


48  EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 

Athenian  counterpart,  he  is  coming  into  his 
kingdom ;  no  name  stands  higher  with 
educated  people  of  the  new  generation  than 
his.  And  this  assures  his  popularity  and  his 
influence  for  future  time  ;  as  years  go  by 
he  will  be  more  respectfully  studied  and 
more  highly  valued.  He  can  repeat,  as 
Euripides  might  have  done,  the  words 
uttered  by  one  of  Schiller's  characters  : 
"  The  century  is  not  ripe  for  my  ideal.  I 
live  a  citizen  of  a  future  commonwealth." 


THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 
ENGLISH  DRAMA 

BETWEEN  the  year  1779,  in  which 
Sheridan's  Critic  was  produced,  and 
the  year  1889,  when  A  DolVs  House 
was  first  performed  in  England,  hes  the 
Dark  Age  of  our  dramatic  Hterature.  During 
those  hundred  and  ten  years  the  theatres 
themselves  had  flourished,  and  first-rate 
actors  had  not  been  rare  ;  but  the  art  of 
dramatic  composition  lay  in  torpor.  While 
the  novel  attained  glory  in  the  hands  of 
Scott,  Thackeray,  and  Dickens,  the  most 
rioted  writers  for  the  stage  were  Joanna 
Baillie,  Thomas  Robertson,  Dion  Boucicault, 
and  Westland  Marston.  Of  all  the  theatrical 
matter  produced  in  that  period  by  writers 
no  longer  living,  there  are  perhaps  only 
:wo  works  which  the  playgoing  public  has 
lot  completely  forgotten — Robertson's  Caste 
and  David  Garrick,  The  censorship  estab- 
ished  by  Walpole  in  1737  had  warned  men 
)f  genius  off  the  stage.     Fielding  is  a  cele- 


50      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

brated  instance ;  what  the  novel  gained, 
play  writing  lost.  But  where  original  genius 
was  forbidden  to  tread,  Robertson  and  his 
congeners  rushed  in.  The  result  was  horrible. 
One  might  harrow  up  the  reader's  soul  with 
extracts  from  the  works  which  for  four 
generations  degraded  the  theatre  of  Van- 
brugh  and  Sheridan  into  the  abyss  where 
the  disciples  of  Ibsen  found  it. 

But  he  shall  be  spared  such  an  anthology. 
Only  let  him  imagine  the  most  difficult  form 
of  literary  art,  where  architectonic  power 
is  essential,  where  so  much  depends  upon 
the  collision  of  genuine  personalities,  upon 
sound  ethics  and  skill  in  language.  Imagine 
the  law  thus  laid  down  for  the  writer  who  is 
to  practise  such  an  art.  ''  You  shall  not 
discuss  religion,  though  you  may  occasion- 
ally employ  its  more  orthodox  forms  as  part 
of  your  upholstery.  Politics  are  to  be 
eschewed,  unless  you  wish  to  remind  your 
hearers  of  the  glory  of  Britain — we  shall  not 
object  to  a  few  honest  tars  or  even  to  a  comic 
soldier,  provided  he  is  of  non-commissioned 
rank.  Satire  of  course  is  permitted,  except 
that  you  must  satirize  only  people  who  have 
been  satirized  already — a  lawyer,  provided 
he  is  only  an  attorney  ;   a  politician,  so  long 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  51 

as  he  is  not  a  Minister  ;  a  farmer,  but  mind 
you  demonstrate  the  goodness  of  his  heart. 
What  ?  You  complain  that  we  are  shackHng 
your  inventive  genius  ?  Nothing  of  the 
kind  1  You  can  portray  society.  Show  us 
the  great  heart  of  the  EngHsh  People — of 
course  without  hurting  anyone's  feelings, 
for  you  will  remember  that  you  are  a  gentle- 
man. Literature  should  uplift.  Therefore 
yovi  will  teach  us  that  love  is  always  un- 
selfish, that  men  in  high  positions  have 
characters  to  correspond,  that  dramatic 
heroes  are  unswervingly  muscular,  tall, 
brave,  and  generous.  Marriages  are  always 
happy  ;  children  are  always  obedient,  except 
in  farces,  and  then,  fortunately,  they  have 
idiotic  fathers,  whom  you  can't  expect 
them  to  take  seriously  ;  there  are  only  two 
sorts  of  women — (a)  ladies,  who  invariably 
behave  as  ladies  ;  and  (b)  females,  who  can 
be  relied  upon  for  a  little  comic  relief." 

Finally,  conceive  this  difficult  art  prac- 
tised, under  such  poisonous  restrictions,  by 
men  of  third-rate  or  fourth-rate  talent. 
One  pretentious  writer  after  another  came 
forward,  not  with  a  "  slice  of  life,"  as  the 
saying  now  is,  not  even  with  a  self-consistent 
romantic  fantasy,  but  with  an  exercise  in 


52       THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

the  theatrical  manner.  That  is  the  real 
vice  of  the  stage — ^to  copy  the  latest  "  suc- 
cessful "  play  instead  of  looking  at  men  and 
women.  This  is  what  is  meant  by  staginess 
— not  merely  the  striking  of  attitudes  : 
Shakespeare  is  full  of  them ;  not  simply 
long  speeches  :  Mr.  Shaw  revels  in  them, 
and  Mr.  Barker's  Trebell  is  a  leading  article 
on  two  legs.  No  ;  it  is  the  unmistakable 
imitation  of  an  imitation.  Those  who  ob- 
jected to  stage  plays  as  immoral  would 
have  stood  on  much  firmer  ground  had  they 
accused  them  of  a  paralysing  dullness. 

Precisely  one  hundred  years  after  Sheri- 
dan's success  with  The  Critic,  Copenhagen 
witnessed  the  production  of  A  DolVs  House, 
Ten  years  later,  after  triumphs  in  Scandinavia 
and  Germany,  the  play  was  given  in  London 
by  Mr.  Charles  Charrington  and  Miss  Janet 
Achurch.  "  It  was  this  production  that 
really  made  Ibsen  known  to  the  English- 
speaking  peoples,"  says  Mr.  William  Archer. 
By  this  play  and  by  his  other  "  realist  " 
works,  such  as  An  Enemy  of  the  People, 
Rosmersholm,  The  Wild  Duck,  Ibsen,  single- 
handed,  saved  English  drama  at  the  moment. 
I  say  "  at  the  moment,"  for  even  had  there 
been  no  Ibsen,  one  cannot  believe  that  the 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  53 

English  nation  would  have  battened  till 
doomsday  upon  works  like  Caste  or  The 
Hobbyhorse.  But  to  Ibsen,  alone  of  in- 
dividual men,  belongs  the  credit  of  the 
fact  that  we  now  possess  real  dramatists. 
What  are  his  special  virtues,  the  lineaments 
of  his  genius  ? 

As  a  dramatic  poet,  Ibsen  stands  beyond 
question  in  the  front  rank.  Setting  himself 
to  produce  a  certain  form  of  art,  he  has 
reached  an  achievement  as  near  perfection 
as  that  of  Sophocles  or  Shakespeare  ;  Hedda 
Gabler,  in  its  genre,  is  as  great  as  (Edipus 
Rex  or  Macbeth  in  theirs.  We  are,  of  course, 
to  note  that  the  genre  is  different.  Neglect 
of  this  simple  fact  vitiated  all  the  judgments 
which  English  critics  offered  upon  the  new 
writer  in  the  last  years  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  What  they  meant  was  that  Ibsen 
is  not  like  Robertson,  to  say  nothing  of 
Shakespeare.  In  the  same  way  French 
critics  who  worshipped  Aristotle's  canons  of 
tragic  art  declared  that  Shakespeare  was  a 
drunken  savage.  One  remembers  the  even 
more  idiomatic  criticism  in  Punch  :  "  There's 
a  stranger  !  'Eave  'arf  a  brick  at  'im  !  " 
Every  insulting  adjective  that  the  printer 
could  be  induced  to  put  into  type  was  hurled 


54      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

at  the  stranger  when  Ghosts  was  performed 
in  1891.  People  were  simply  blaming  him 
for  not  possessing  qualities  which  would 
have  prevented  them  from  ever  hearing 
about  him,  for  not  following  a  fashion  which 
it  was  his  chief  aim  to  eradicate.  The  genre 
of  Hedda  Gabler  is  different  from  that  of  any 
other  school.  Whether  it  is  as  sublime  and 
edifying  a  type  as  that  of  the  Elizabethan 
and  of  the  Greek  tragedians  is  quite  a  dif- 
ferent matter.  It  is,  in  any  case,  a  magni- 
ficent creation,  capable  of  values  which  can 
be  attained  in  no  other  way.  In  brief,  the 
aim  of  Sophocles  was  to  make  man  accom- 
modate his  intellect  to  his  spiritual  environ- 
ment ;  the  aim  of  Shakespeare  to  entertain 
by  chastening  the  emotions ;  the  aim  of 
Ibsen  to  instruct  by  a  new  appeal  to  ethical 
facts. 

This  brings  us  to  the  first  salient  charac- 
teristic of  the  Norwegian — his  courage.  He 
never  runs  away  from  facts  in  life,  nor  from 
the  situations  which  he  himself  portrays. 
The  customary  procedure  being  to  get  over 
a  difficulty  by  pretending  that  it  does  not 
exist,  Ibsen  not  only  proves  that  it  does 
exist,  but  also — a  vital  point — that  it  is 
only  by  ignoring  it  that  we  give  it  full  power 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  55 

over  us.  Nor  does  he  shrink  from  the  con- 
sequences of  his  own  imagination.  There 
is  nothing  which  the  third-rate  dramatist 
loves  better  than  the  attempt  to  make  the 
best,  so  to  speak,  of  both  worlds — ^to  win 
approbation  from  the  stalls  by  a  daring 
scene,  and  then  run  away  from  it,  to  snatch 
the  cheers  of  the  gallery.  So,  in  The 
Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith,  Sir  Arthur  Pinero 
depicts  a  spirited,  hard-driven  woman  who, 
at  a  crisis,  is  offered  a  Bible.  She  flings  it 
into  the  fire.  ''  Here  !  "  says  the  culture- 
hunter,  "  is  courage  of  one's  convictions. 
Here  is  an  advanced  playwright  !  And  how 
advanced  of  me  to  be  here  !  Pinero  and  I 
are  making  history."  But  Mrs.  Ebbsmith 
utters  a  scream.  It  cannot  be  !  She  rushes 
to  the  stove  and  drags  forth  the  volume, 
brandishing  it  aloft  amid  the  ecstasies  of 
the  gods.  Here  is  "something  for  every- 
one," in  truth  !  Ibsen,  of  course,  like  every 
other  dramatist  worth  his  salt,  never  dreams 
of  thus  running  with  the  hare  and  hunting 
with  the  hounds.  Compromise  may  be  the 
life  of  politics,  but  it  is  the  death  of  art. 
Ibsen's  own  uncompromising  honesty  has 
led  to  queer  results,  not  the  least  odd  being 
the    history    of    A    DolVs    House,     In    that 


56      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

celebrated  conversation  between  Nora  and 
Torvald  Helmer  with  which  the  play  ends, 
it  is  of  course  essential  that  the  wife  should 
stick  to  her  guns,  quietly  but  with  complete 
assurance.  \Vlien  the  play  reached  Germany, 
theatrical  managers  actually  provided  it 
with  a  "  happy  ending,"  in  which  Nora  did 
not  leave  her  husband  after  all,  and  the 
famous  slam  of  the  door,  the  neatest  and  most 
legitimate  coup  de  theatre  in  the  history  of 
the  stage,  was  left  out  !  At  that  time  his 
works  had  no  protection  in  Germany,  and 
the  master  himself  was  driven  to  devise,  for 
the  moment,  another  finale  in  which  Nora, 
for  her  children's  sake,  remained  at  home. 
He  explained  that  he  "  preferred  to  commit 
the  outrage  himself."  His  revenge  was  signal 
and  almost  laughably  appropriate.  The  very 
next  work  he  wrote  was  Ghosts,  in  which  the 
wife  did  not  leave  her  husband.  The  results 
of  that  wifely  compliance  were  so  horrible 
that  for  many  years  Ghosts  lay  under  the 
veto  of  the  English  censor. 

I  allude  merely  in  passing  to  the  splendid 
reality  of  his  character-drawing  and  the 
pungency  of  his  situations,  so  terrifying  in 
their  earnestness  and  sincerity,  so  purifying 
and    regenerating    in    proportion    to    their 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  57 

ruthlessness.  Another  side  of  his  genius  is 
the  architectonic  skill  by  which  he  rivals  the 
Athenian  masters.  He  knows  hardly  any- 
thing of  underplots  ;  there  is  not  a  scene 
or  a  character,  hardly  a  word,  which  is  not 
a  stone  in  a  simple  edifice — always  necessary, 
always  adequate  for  the  advancement  of 
the  one  purpose.  As  to  his  subject-matter, 
he  is  (so  far  as  England  at  any  rate  is  con- 
cerned) the  father  of  the  so-called  "  drama 
of  ideas,"  but  he  himself  belongs  to  that 
school  only  in  the  most  general  sense.  Ibsen 
has  no  social  theory  or  political  propaganda 
or  religious  or  ethical  dogma,  of  any  very 
specialized  sort,  to  advance.  No  specific 
abuses  or  temporary  "  causes  "  claim  him 
as  their  opponent  or  champion.  He  is  too 
fundamental  for  that  ;  what  he  writes  is 
written  sub  specie  ceternitatis ,  He  wishes  us 
to  revise  our  attitude  towards  life,  to  change 
our  notion  of  values.  By  him  we  are  taught, 
as  by  all  great  teachers,  not  so  much  what 
to  think  as  how  to  think,  not  action  but  the 
reasoned  basis  of  action.  An  ingenuous 
tyro,  who  should  study  these  dramas  in  order 
to  cleanse  his  way,  would  be  perplexed  to 
find  that  in  An  Enemy  of  the  People  truth- 
speaking  at   all  costs  is  Stockmann's  duty. 


58      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

whereas  in  The  Wild  Buck  it  wrecks  a  home 
and  kills  an  innocent,  affectionate  child ; 
that  in  Hedda  Gabler  a  wife  shoots  herself 
in  order  (as  it  appears)  to  avoid  the  im- 
portunities of  a  lover,  while  in  Gliosis  a 
woman  who  has  been  saved  from  infidelity 
traces  all  the  misfortunes  of  her  family  to 
her  own  lack  of  initiative.  But  the  secret 
is  that,  for  Ibsen  and  his  followers,  the 
spring  of  action  is  not  conventional  morals, 
but  a  far-seeing  economy  of  happiness  ;  it 
has  been  admirably  expressed  by  Mr.  Shaw  : 
"The  real  slavery  of  to-day  is  slavery  to 
ideals  of  goodness."  Dogmatic  morality  is 
an  idol,  prompting  mere  waste  of  character 
and  energy.  The  only  criterion  of  goodness 
in  an  act  is  its  effect  on  happiness.  If 
morality  demands  that  one  should  sacrifice 
one's  happiness  and  usefulness,  so  much  the 
worse  for  morality.  Many  of  the  furious 
cavalry-charges,  which  have  flung  themselves 
upon  his  lines,  are  in  one  sense  justified. 
Those  who  say  he  is  immoral  are  right, 
but  it  does  not  follow  that  they  are  right  in 
objecting  to  his  immorality.  Morals  are  the 
codified  expression  of  the  current  behaviour 
of  the  day.  A  man  who  breaks  the  code 
may  be  wicked  ;   he  may  equally  well  be  the 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  59 

apostle  of  a  new  morality,  whose  first  duty  is 
to  challenge  the  old.  The  whole  mistake  of 
the  early  attacks  upon  Ibsen  was  that  people 
took  him  for  a  law-breaker  of  the  first  type, 
whereas  he  belongs  to  the  second.  Such 
teaching  as  his  must  of  course  be  dangerous, 
like  all  exploring  expeditions  ;  a  path  is  to 
be  made  through  a  jungle  infested  by  savage 
beasts.  And  there  will  be  camp-followers 
to  disgrace  the  march,  because  they  have 
joined,  not  for  exploration,  but  for  plunder. 
Such,  in  brief,  are  the  doctrine  and 
methods  of  Ibsen.  What  are  their  effects 
in  England  ?  The  native  playwrights  of 
our  time  form  a  highly  variegated  band, 
but  it  may  be  divided  with  fair  accuracy 
into  four  divisions.  One  may  here  be  dis- 
missed summarily  though  respectfully — the 
school  represented  by  the  late  Stephen 
Phillips  and  by  Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley. 
Though  much  of  their  work  is  magnificent, 
a  discussion  of  "  the  present  renaissance  " 
must  pass  them  by,  since  they  have  devoted 
themselves  to  the  "  poetical "  drama  and 
are  manifestly  in  the  technical  tradition  of 
Browning  and  Tennyson,  with  little  or  no 
specific  relation  to  the  spirit  of  our  own  time. 
The  second  category,  by  far  the  most  popular 


60      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

and   influential,    practises   an   artificial   and 
theatrical  criticism  of  contemporary  manners. 

A    Of  this   school  the   most   notable   members 

to-day  are  Sir  Arthur  Finer o  and  Mr.  Henry 

\  Arthur  Jones.     The  third  category  contains 

'^^only    Mr.    John    Masefield.     To   the    fourth 

belong  Mr.  Granville  Barker,  Mr.  Galsworthy, 

^   Mr.  Shaw,  and,  of  deceased  writers,  George 

Calderon    and    St.    John    Hankin.     Let    us 

discuss  these  last  three  divisions  in  turn. 

The  first  finds  its  "Morning  Star"  in 
Oscar  Wilde,  who,  if  cleverness  could  suffice 
for  drama,  would  have  been  the  greatest 
master  since  Congreve  of  the  Comedy  of 
Manners.  The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest 
is  perhaps  the  best  farce  in  existence,  ex- 
emplifying to  admiration  Wilde's  magnifi- 
cence of  epigram,  elegance  of  language, 
deadness  of  soul.  Wliat  could  be  better 
than  the  prospective  mother-in-law's  dismay 
at  finding  that  the  suitor  is  a  foundling,  a 
man  whose  career  began  by  being  dis- 
covered in  a  handbag  ?  "  You  can  hardly 
imagine  that  I  and  Lord  Bracknell  would 
dream  of  allowing  our  only  daughter — a  girl 
brought  up  with  the  utmost  care- — to  marry 
into  a  cloakroom,  and  form  an  alliance  with 
a  parcel  ?  "     The  same  brilliance  is  lavishly 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  61 

spread  over  his  serious  plays.  Perhaps  the 
finest  epigram  in  the  world  occurs  in  Lady 
Windermere's  Fan  :  "  What  is  a  cynic  ?  " 
— "  A  man  who  knows  the  price  of  every- 
thing and  the  value  of  nothing."  But  is 
this  drama  ?  It  does  not  help  the  action, 
it  throws  little  light  on  the  character  of 
the  man  who  utters  it;  Lord  Darlington 
is  only  a  name,  though  one  of  the  chief 
personages  in  the  play.  That  particular 
scene  is  a  celebrated  blaze  of  epigrams. 
"  Wicked  women  bother  one,  good  women 
bore  one.  That  is  the  only  difference 
between  them."  "  Scandal  is  gossip  made 
tedious  by  morality."  "  In  this  world  there 
are  only  two  tragedies.  One  is  not  getting 
what  one  wants.  The  other  is  getting  it." 
But  an  orgy  of  confectionery  is  not  a  solid 
meal,  nor  are  these  decadent  blossoms 
capable  of  making  a  play.  Wilde's  char- 
acters are  feeble  utterly  —  either  comic, 
pouring  forth  brassy  wit  in  season  and  out 
of  season ;  or  serious,  mere  gramophones 
emitting  platitudes  on  love,  honour,  or 
social  service.  The  old  theatrical  situations 
which  satisfied  Robertson  and  Westland 
Marston,  the  strained  improbable  crises 
unreally  handled,  furbished  up  by  a  peerless 


62      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

gift  of  wit  in  order  to  impress  the  uncritical 
with  a  sense  of  ultra-modernity — such  is 
his  work.  We  see  him  now  as  essentially 
commonplace,  a  verdict  which  would  have 
sent  him  into  a  swoon. 

Wilde  is  the  earliest  and  most  brilliant 
member  of  what  we  may  call  the  Neo- 
British  School.  Succeeding  writers  do,  to 
be  sure,  exhibit  special  qualities,  but  the 
seal  of  Wilde  is  upon  them  all.  They  are, 
in  short,  the  heirs  of  Robertson,  who  have 
latterly  obtained  a  spurious  appearance  of 
freshness  by  a  pretence  of  following  Ibsen 
or  by  a  half-hearted  attempt  to  follow  him. 
In  the  Robertsonian  era  the  formula  ran 
thus.  Take  a  simple  love-story — a  girl 
with  beauty  and  a  heart  of  gold,  a  man 
in  a  cavalry  uniform  ;  this  will  charm  the 
audience  into  accepting  any  improbability 
of  detail.  Next  we  insert  dramatic  effect. 
This  is  done  by  attaching  to  one  of  the  lovers 
an  incongruous  parent.  (In  Caste  there  are 
two,  the  lady's  drunken  father  and  the 
hero's  Plantagenet  mother  ;  hence  the  long- 
continued  vogue  of  the  whole.)  The  in- 
congruous parent  causes  fun  and  trouble. 
As  a  foil  or  antidote  to  hirn,  introduce  a 
humble  friend,  who  by  dropping  his  (or  her) 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  63 

aitches  will  evince  the  goodness  of  his  (or 
her)  heart.  Punctuation  consists  in  making 
your  •'  immaculate  swell  "  sit  on  his  silk  hat. 
An  "  effective  curtain "  to  each  act  is 
secured  by  the  mechanical  intrusion  of 
something  to  make  the  audience  jump. 
Let  the  tipsy  friend  reel  in  and  offer  the 
Duchess  his  mug  of  beer.  Or  the  postman 
(that  most  hard-worked  of  all  theatrical 
characters)  will  ring  the  bell ;  and  the 
curtain  goes  down  to  "  We  are  ordered  to 
India  !  "  or  "  Thank  Heaven,  my  child  is 
found  !  " 

Most  members  of  the  Neo-British  School 
are  aware  that  this  kind  of  writing  will  not 
do  without  some  kind  of  disguise  or  revision. 
For  one  thing,  mere  repetition  has  made 
it  stale  beyond  endurance.  For  another, 
most  of  them  have  far  too  much  intellect 
and  sense  of  artistic  decency  to  be  content 
with  the  well-nigh  incredible  badness  of  the 
typical  mid-nineteenth-century  play.  And, 
thirdly,  there  is  Ibsen  to  count  with  ;  people 
may  hate  or  despise  or  misunderstand 
Ibsen  as  much  as  they  please,  but  after 
seeing  a  work  of  his  they  are  no  longer  quite 
so  satisfied  with  their  own  favourite  play  or 
type  of  play.     Accordingly,  the  Neo-British 


64      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

School  is  pseudo-Ibsenist  or  (if  that  sounds 
too  offensive)  quasi-Ibsenist ;  for  one  should 
distinguish  between  those  who  have  merely- 
picked  up  Ibsenian  tricks  and  those  who 
are  really  seeking  to  learn  from  him  some- 
thing new  about  life  and  art.  Our  one 
reason  for  placing  these  latter  in  our  second 
category  and  not  in  our  fourth  is  precisely 
this,  that  Ibsen's  influence  upon  them  has 
been  too  intermittent  or  slight  for  them  to 
break  with  dramatic  Victorianism. 

Accordingly  the  method  of  this  school 
is  to  write  a  play  thoroughly  conventional 
at  heart,  and  to  tag  it  out  with  details  or 
flourishes  which  look  like  Ibsenism.  The 
audience  finds  nothing  to  cause  hostility  or 
misgiving,  and  yet  it  has  a  delicious  sense 
of  being  in  the  movement,  of  facing  the 
music.  Take  the  old  Robert sonian  formula, 
but  instead  of  a  hero  in  the  Heavy  Dragoons 
give  us  a  hero  in  shirt-sleeves  ;  instead  of 
militiamen,  talk  of  aviation ;  and  don't 
make  all  your  foreigners  either  fools  or 
scoundrels.  You  will  then  win  the  respect 
due  to  antiquity  together  with  the  admi- 
ration deserved  by  originality.  Thus  Mr. 
Rudolf  Besier's  play,  Don,  made  a  notable 
stir.     There  is  the  framework  of  a  gentle 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  65 

scholarly  ecclesiastic  and  his  wife,  both 
devoted  to  their  brilliant  son ;  the  "  cho- 
leric "  old  general  and  his  wife,  with  a 
sweet  wise  daughter.  The  brilliant  son 
and  the  sweet  wise  daughter  are,  one  learns 
with  small  astonishment,  engaged  to  be 
married.  But  now  let  us  show  we  have  a 
sense  of  the  Zeitgeist.  Instead  of  a  comic 
Irishman  or  the  sale  of  military  plans  to 
a  foreign  foe,  let  us  depict  a  domestic 
problem.  The  son  therefore  runs  away  with 
a  married  woman.  Your  pseudo-advanced 
writer  invariably  reveals  his  calibre  by  this 
assumption  that  the  "  problem-play  "  must 
treat  of  marital  infidelity  :  there  is  only 
one  sin — ^the  Decalogue  has  become  a  mono- 
logue. But  it  must  be  owned  that  Mr. 
Besier  has  achieved  novelty,  since  the 
brilliant  son  aforesaid  has  eloped  for  quite 
"  innocent  "  reasons.  The  lady  has  a  posi- 
tive bogey-man  for  a  husband,  whose  ex- 
traordinary bristliness  is  killing  her.  The 
hero,  a  most  unworldly  person,  feels  that 
she  must  be  taken  away  for  a  little  rest 
and  petting  ;  he  brings  her  to  his  own  home, 
and  hands  her  over  to  his  mother.  The 
husband  pursues,  and  there  follows  an 
elaborate      contest      between     the     gentle 


66      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

ecclesiastic  (who  positively  reeks  of  Christ- 
church)  and  the  fanatical  Nonconformist 
ranter.  Such  is  pseudo-Ibsenism,  as  shown 
by  a  favourable  specimen,  for  Mr.  Besier 
is  almost  the  best  writer  of  the  whole  school ; 
his  dialogue  and  situations,  in  Don  at  any 
rate,  do  not  smell  of  the  footlights. 

A  good  deal  of  this  praise  must  be  given 
also  to  Mr.  Alfred  Sutro,  who  in  an  amiable, 
light-hearted,  not  too  vigorous  way  has 
given  us  credible  and  sincerely  -  written 
scenes.  But  one  cannot  help  feeling  that 
his  work  is  actually  composed  in  a  theatre  ; 
there  is  too  much  of  Wilde's  artificial  gloss. 
It  is  somewhat  quaint  that  Mr.  Sutro's 
best  piece  should  be  actually  named  The 
Man  in  the  Stalls.  Mr.  Somerset  Maugham's 
work  has  on  the  whole  about  the  same  value 
as  Mr.  Sutro's,  but  he  varies  far  more  in 
excellence.  At  one  time  he  was  terribly 
unreal,  the  Robertson  of  an  England  which 
supposed  that  when  good  Britons  died  they 
went  to  Monte  Carlo.  At  that  period  he 
was  perhaps  the  most  repellently  stagey  of 
the  whole  Neo-British  School ;  it  is  almost 
incredible  that  Jack  Straw  was  produced 
as  recently  as  1908  ;  the  play  is  obsolete 
beyond    words,    except     that    the    foreign 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  67 

ambassador  speaks  excellent  English  —  a 
daring  stroke  which  reveals  Mr.  Maugham 
upon  his  watch-tower,  reporting  the  time  of 
day.  Since  then  he  has  become  equal  to 
Mr.  Sutro  ;  The  Land  of  Promise,  despite 
the  rather  violent  severance  of  its  first  act 
from  the  others,  is  good,  forceful  drama. 
Mr.  Arnold  Bennett,  in  The  Honeymoon^ 
Milestones,  and  The  Title,  has  shown  some 
charm,  originality,  and  "  sense  of  the 
theatre,"  but  on  the  whole  he  has  mildly 
and  unexcitingly  followed  the  Neo-British 
manner. 

There  remain  three  members  of  this 
category  whose  dramatic  reputation  with 
the  majority  of  playgoers  stands  far  higher. 
Sir  J.  M.  Barrie  has  charmed  us  all  so 
poignantly  with  his  marvellous  Peter  Pan — 
which  is  by  this  time  not  so  much  a  play  as 
an  institution,  like  Alice  in  Wonderland — 
that  one  finds  difficulty  in  considering  him  as 
a  dramatist.  But  most  of  his  work  consists 
of  traditional  ideas  aerated  by  a  novel 
mise-en-scene  (as  in  The  Admirable  Crichton) 
— ^the  ethical  and  emotional  standards  of  a 
novelette  draped  in  raiment  of  delightful 
hue  and  texture.  Mr.  Henry  Arthur  Jones 
has  far  more  dramatic  force  and  sincerity  ; 


68      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

he  is,  indeed,  rightly  regarded  as  the  finest 
playwright  of  this  school.  As  Mr.  Jones 
vigorously  repudiates  Ibsen,  for  instance  in 
the  preface  to  his  Divine  Gift,  and  as  he 
undoubtedly  possesses  technical  skill  of  a 
high  order  combined  with  a  genuine  interest 
in  ethical  truth,  one  hesitates  to  attribute 
his  progress  in  stage-mastery  and  pungency 
to  Ibsen's  influence.  But  he  is  none  the 
less  Neo-British.  His  ideas  are  striking 
and  presented  by  excellent  situations  ;  but 
the  treatment  of  them,  despite  admirable 
apergus  by  the  way,  peters  out  into  con- 
ventional moralizing  and  futility.  In  The 
Philistines,  The  Liars,  Michael  and  his  Lost 
Angel,  we  feel  that  we  are  witnessing  a  play, 
not  a  picture  of  life. 

Thus  do  we  finally  reach  the  portentous 
Sir  Arthur  Pinero.  Of  all  contemporary 
English  dramatists  whom  one  can  take 
seriously  he  is  the  most  popular,  the  most 
prolific,  and  the  most  meretricious ;  one 
cannot  imagine  the  action  in  his  plays  as 
happening  in  any  but  artificial  light.  His 
earliest  published  work.  The  Magistrate 
(revived  as  The  Boy),  is  perhaps  the  best. 
Granted  the  old  conventions  of  impossible 
misunderstandings,    amazing    and    endless 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  69 

coincidences,  this  farce  is  distinctly  good  ; 
"  Gone — and  without  a  cry — ^brave  fellow  !  " 
is  an  inspiration.  But  when  one  considers 
that  the  plot  hinges  on  the  imposture  of  a 
mother  who  for  her  own  sake  knocks  off 
several  years  from  her  son's  age,  with  the 
result  that  a  stripling  of  more  or  less 
marriageable  age  is  presented  as  a  boy 
young  enough  to  be  kissed  and  petted  by 
various  ladies,  who  one  and  all  accept  the 
fraud  without  murmur — when  one  considers 
this,  one  cannot  award  Sir  Arthur  any  very 
impressive  laurels.  The  Magistrate  is,  how- 
ever, his  cleverest  play ;  of  the  others  we 
cannot  attempt  to  give  a  catalogue.  But 
although  Sir  Arthur,  in  a  letter  prefaced  to 
Mr.  W.  L.  Courtney's  Idea  of  Tragedy,  men- 
tions with  very  scant  respect  the  greatest 
playwright  since  Shakespeare,  his  work  is 
the  most  instructive  example  that  could 
be  chosen  of  Ibsen's  influence  on  the  Neo- 
British  School.  Noticing  the  vogue  which 
the  incomprehensible  Norwegian  was  gain- 
ing, even  in  London,  Sir  Arthur  Pinero 
seems  to  have  exclaimed,  "  Britons  never 
shall  be  slaves  ! "  and  produced  The  Second 
Mrs.  Tanqueray  and  The  Notorious  Mrs, 
Ebbsmith.     The  latter  person  has  been  dis- 


70      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

cussed  earlier.  As  for  her  colleague,  Mrs. 
Tanqueray,  the  author  has  sat  down  to 
devise  a  "  strong  scene "  in  the  most  ad- 
vanced style — ^the  conversation  between 
the  stepmother  and  the  man  who  is  her 
stepdaughter's  accepted  suitor,  and  whose 
mistress  the  stepmother  herself  has  been. 
All  the  rest  of  the  piece  is  scaffolding,  and 
the  climax  itself,  failing  of  real  cogency 
and  pathos,  becomes  merely  sordid  and 
vexatious.  The  truth  is  that  Pinero  is 
amazingly  trivial.  Preserving  Mr.  Panmure 
deals  with  a  governess  who  is  kissed  against 
her  will,  and  the  whole  action  consists  of 
complications  caused  by  the  fact  that  she 
will  not  reveal  the  identity  of  her  admirer 
(her  employer)  while  her  employer's  wife 
insists  on  trying  to  discover  which  of 
their  guests  is  guilty.  And  to  this  theme 
the  dramatist  devotes,  not  one  act,  but 
four  ! 

Mr.  Masefield's  position  is  utterly  different. 
In  downright  genius  he  is  one  of  the  greatest 
Englishmen  now  engaged  upon  literature. 
In  Pompey  the  Great  we  have  simply  a  good 
theatrical  history-play.  But  The  Tragedy 
of  Nan  is  a  drama  of  extraordinary  merit. 
It  is  so  sound  in  characterization,  so  realistic 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  71 

in  scene  and  thought,  that  one  might  boldly 
label  its  author  a  semi-Ibsenist,  did  he  not 
exhibit  a  poetical  charm,  a  splendour  of 
dark  tinting,  above  all,  a  richness  of  atmos- 
phere, which  sunder  him  utterly  from  every 
other  dramatist  of  our  day.  Unfortunately 
he  does,  in  fact,  stand  alone  at  present  in 
this  enthralling  type  of  work  wherein  in- 
tellect is  not  clouded,  but  illuminated,  by 
emotional  sympathy  and  poetical  imagina- 
tion ;  for  Mr.  Barker,  who  gave  distinct 
signs  of  it  in  Ann  Leete,  has  passed  over  to 
a  post-Ibsenist  manner. 

Thus  at  last  we  come  to  the  authors 
whom  I  have  put*  into  a  third  section — Mr. 
Shaw,  Mr.  Barker,  Mr.  Galsworthy,  St.  John 
Hankin,  and  George  Calderon.  Each  of  these 
has  special  merits  and  faults,  but  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  they  form  a  distinct 
body  as  compared  with  such  writers  as 
Finer o  or  Masefield.  They  are  the  English 
Ibsenists,  the  realist  school.  But  before 
we  discuss  them  separately,  let  us  be  clear 
as  to  what  we  mean  by  realism. 

There  are  at  least  two  sorts  of  reality.  On 
the  one  hand  are  the  facts  of  life  and  nature 
as  we  meet  them  every  day  ;  on  the  other  are 
facts,  not  as  we  see  them,  but  as  they  are. 


72      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

There  are  (that  is)  two  final  ways  of  looking 
at  phenomena  :  isolated,  as  an  animal  sees 
them ;  grouped,  as  the  Divine  Mind  sees 
them,  an  organized  whole.  Between  these 
extremes  lies  the  view  of  that  divine  animal, 
Man.  By  the  law  of  his  intellect  he  groups 
things  so  that  he  may  understand  them, 
though  he  for  ever  groups  them  imperfectly. 
The  more  scientific  a  man's  brain,  the  more 
he  will  systematize  his  knowledge  of  physical 
facts  ;  he  will  understand  more  deeply  and 
more  widely,  in  some  measure  '  thinking  God's 
thoughts  after  Him.'  That  is  what  is  meant 
by  Science.  The  more  poetical  a  man's 
spirit,  the  more  he  will  systematize  his 
sympathy  with  emotional  fact ;  the  passions 
and  conduct  of  an  individual  will  be  viewed 
more  and  more  as  the  symbol  and  expression 
of  the  Divine  Spirit,  expressing  itself  through 
all  humanity.  That  is  the  soul  of  Art.  It 
follows,  then,  that  the  artist  never  renders 
things  as  they  appear  to  the  incurious  gaze. 
It  cannot  be  said  of  him  always  that  "  he 
touched  nothing  that  he  did  not  adorn," 
but  it  is  always  true  that  he  touches  nothing 
that  he  does  not  alter.  Set  Watts  to  paint 
the  portrait  of  an  actress  or  an  alderman, 
ask  Keats  to  describe  a  nightingale's  song. 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  73 

Rodin  to  carve  some  trifle  for  the  garden 
of  the  Tuileries.  From  each  you  receive 
more  than  you  asked  for — not  the  ware 
of  a  tradesman,  but  the  touch  of  an  unseen 
hand,  the  utterance  of  a  voice  hitherto 
unheard. 

Therefore,  if  reahsm  be  a  form  of  art,  it  is 
not  the  mere  portrayal  of  isolated  facts.  If 
it  were,  how  would  a  picture  be  better  than 
a  photograph,  a  lyric  more  moving  than 
a  newspaper  report  ?  The  simple  truth  is, 
that  while  transcendental  literature  works 
at  two  removes  from  the  lowest  plane  of 
reality,  realistic  literature  is  still  one  remove 
therefrom.  The  diviner  art  works  more 
inevitably  in  general  truths  ;  the  essences 
of  emotion  are  its  very  drink  ;  it  speaks  as  if 
the  daily  isolated  things  were  half -forgotten 
upon  the  dark  earth.  The  other  form  of  art 
works  in  generalities  too,  that  it  may  more 
illuminatingiy  expound  the  common  experi- 
ences which  confront  it.  One  artist  ascends 
the  mountain  that  he  may  dwell  nearer 
heaven  ;  the  other,  that  he  may  more  clearly 
discern  his  path  across  the  earth — but  he 
does  not  stand  upon  the  plain  so  long  as  the 
artistic  impulse  is  upon  him.  The  maker 
even  of  a  realistic  play  uses  the  so-called 


74  THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 
facts  of  life  merely  as  raw  material.  Mr. 
Galsworthy,  as  surely  as  M.  Maeterlinck, 
must  select,  alter,  and  combine,  so  that  his 
work  may  be  an  organized  artistic  whole. 
His  drama  will  not  be  a  mere  reflex  of  actual 
events,  in  which  endless  interruptions  and 
irrelevancies  obscure  the  lesson  which  he 
seeks  to  inculcate. 

It  will  now  be  clear  what  is  meant  when 
the  name  "  realist  "  is  given  to  Shaw,  Barker, 
Galsworthy,  and  others.  There  are  three 
great  processes  of  composition  which  we 
may  distinguish  in  the  work  of  any  dramatist. 
The  distinction  is  logical  only,  for  the  play- 
wright carries  on  all  three  acts  of  creation 
simultaneously.  These  three  are  to  be 
found  in  a  realist  writer  quite  as  certainly  as 
in  any  other  ;  there  is  no  omission  of  features 
vital  to  art.  The  great  and  only  difference 
between  the  transcendentalist  and  the 
realist  lies  in  the  relative  importance  at- 
tached by  them  to  each  of  the  processes. 
First,  there  is  a  series  of  scenes  from  life, 
events,  and  conversations  which  may 
actually  have  happened.  Secondly,  this 
subject-matter  is  kneaded  and  shaped  and 
carved  ;  irrelevant  things  are  left  out ;  the 
significant    events    are   made   to   grow   out 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  75 

of  one  another  in  a  significant  manner; 
people  are  set  in  circumstances  which  throw 
just  the  right  illumination  upon  their 
characters.  Thirdly,  the  artist,  as  a  master 
of  language,  adds  the  charm  of  directness 
I  and  wit  to  his  dialogue.  This  last  is  by  no 
means  superficial  polish  only.  No  writer 
but  the  merely  clever  persifleur,  like  Wilde, 
garnishes  a  bald  situation  with  blazing  but 
imported  epigrams.  For  the  supremely 
great  author  every  word  is  a  part  of  the 
plot.  Let  me  take  a  few  instances  almost  at 
random.  On  the  first  page  of  Mr.  Thomas 
Hardy's  most  dramatic  novel,  we  are  told 
that  the  clergyman  jestingly  nicknamed  an 
old  peasant  "  Sir  John."  This  tiny  joke, 
like  the  breath  of  wind  which  dispatches  an 
avalanche  upon  its  career,  is  the  starting- 
point  of  all  that  history  of  love  and  blood- 
shed which  is  called  Tess  of  the  d'  Urbervilles. 
Shakespeare  gives  an  amazingly  skilful 
instance  in  that  scene  of  The  Merchant  of 
Venice  where  Shylock  entraps  Antonio  :  his 
life  must  be  in  the  bond,  but  how  insert  it 
without  arousing  fatal  suspicions  ?  The 
usurer,  to  defend  his  usury,  quotes  the 
story  of  Jacob  and  Laban's  flocks.  This 
puts  the  notion  of  Hebrews  and  flesh  and 


76      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

usury  into  Antonio's  head.  Mark  his  own 
words  : — 

When  did  friendship  take 
A  hyeed  for  barren  metal  of  his  friend  ? 

Thus,  when  the  terms  are  mentioned,  the 
shock  of  surprise,  which  would  have  wrecked 
the  whole  plot,  is  not  felt.  An  equally  vital 
instance  occurs  in  The  Wild  Duck,  where 
Gregers  Werle  directly  causes  the  death  of 
little  Hedwig  by  his  choice  of  a  metaphor. 

All  these  three  processes  or  features,  which 
one  may  briefly  call  photography,  construc- 
tion, and  wit,  are  to  be  found  as  I  said,  in 
the  English  Ibsenists.  It  only  needs  to  be 
added  that  there  is  perhaps  an  exaggeration 
of  photography  in  most  of  their  work.  But, 
whatever  their  faults,  they  (with  minor 
writers  of  their  type)  form  the  only  school  of 
British  playwrights  which  practises  dramatic 
art  as  distinguished  from  merely  theatrical 
adroitness. 

St.  John  Hankin  produced  seven  plays  : 
The  Two  Mr.  Wetherbys,  The  Return  of  the 
Prodigal,  The  Charity  that  began  at  Home, 
The  Cassilis  Engagement,  The  Last  of  the  de 
Mullins,  and  two  one-act  pieces.  The  Burglar 
who  failed  and  The  Constant  Lover.  I  take 
this  writer  first  because,  though  his  work  is 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  77 

chronologically  more  recent  than  that  of  the 
others,  it  is  artistically  earlier.  Hankin  is, 
indeed,  an  interesting  study  in  transition. 
The  Two  Mr,  Wetherhys  has  strong  affinities 
with  the  Neo-British  School.  The  exposure 
of  the  husband,  through  the  discovery  of  a 
music-hall  programme  in  his  pocket,  is  only 
a  symptom  of  this  ;  and  the  feebleness  and 
the  staginess  of  all  the  characters,  except 
the  extraordinary  Dick,  is  a  weakness  in 
execution,  not  in  conception.  But  the 
theatrical  triviality  of  the  theme,  above  all 
the  frantically  absurd  "  happy  ending  "  by 
which  the  devil-may-care  husband  belies 
his  whole  character  and  the  trend  of  the 
whole  play  so  that  the  curtain  may  descend 
as  of  old  upon  couples  instead  of  units — 
these  ghastlinesses  mark  the  pre-Ibsenist 
born  too  late.  The  other  works  show  a 
quite  different  tone.  Even  the  first  of  them 
— The  Return  of  the  Prodigal — is  so  much 
more  mature  and  certain  in  its  handling  that 
I  cannot  repel  the  suspicion  that  The  Two 
Mr,  Wetherhys  is  a  youthful  production 
brushed  up  for  the  stage  a  good  many  years 
after  it  was  written.  But  The  Prodigal 
evinces  real  observation  and  artistic  sin- 
cerity.    It   is  the   story   of   a  wastrel  who 


78  THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 
really  is  a  wastrel ;  he  is  not  a  "  victim  of 
circumstances  "  or  "a  rough  diamond,"  or 
a  good  trusting  fellow  betrayed  and  badgered 
by  his  villainous  rival  through  three  acts, 
only  to  save  the  heroine  from  a  burning  mill 
in  the  fourth.  No  ;  he  is  by  birth  inefficient 
— a  gentleman,  good-natured,  and  discreet, 
but  material  prosperity  flees  from  his  most 
crafty  stalking.  There  are  such  people,  and 
Hankin  gives  us  a  first-rate  study  of  one  of 
them,  a  study  both  amusing  and  pathetic, 
unmarred  by  a  cowardly  "  happy  ending." 
In  The  Charity  that  began  at  Home  a  lady 
decides  to  "do  good  "  by  inviting  to  her 
country-house  people  whom  no  one  else  will 
entertain.  She  thus  gathers  round  her  an 
extraordinary  group  of  nuisances — an  ogre 
of  a  governess  who  insists  on  poor  Lady 
Denison  learning  der  die  das  at  the  busiest 
hours  of  the  day ;  a  terribly  common 
commercial  traveller  ;  a  shady  ex-lieutenant 
of  "  the  Munsters  "  ;  a  positively  paralysing 
bore  of  an  Anglo-Indian  colonel  of  the 
"  Poona-Horse-my-boy  "  type,  and  so  forth. 
The  discovery  by  these  wretches  of  the 
reason  Lady  Denison  had  for  inviting  them 
makes  an  effective  scene,  but  the  play  as  a 
whole  falls  flat,  because  Hankin  never  made 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  79 

up  his  mind  whether  he  intended  comedy  or 
mere  farce.     The   Cassilis  Engagement  pro- 
duces   the    same    effect    of    amiabihty    and 
weakness,  though  here  the  author  is  very 
successful  in  his  country-house  atmosphere. 
But  the  whole  rests  on  a  psychological  im- 
possibility.    For  a  youth  of  the  type  repre- 
sented by  Geoffrey  Cassilis  to  become  en- 
gaged to  a  girl  like  Ethel  Borridge  is  as  near 
a  miracle  as  a  respectable  Ibsenist  can  get. 
The  dialogue,  here  as  elsewhere,  is  admirable 
— Si  kind  of  compromise  between  the  wit  of 
Wilde  and  the  wit  of  Shaw.     We  still  feel 
the   spirit   of   transition,   another   symptom 
of  which  is  the  exaggerated  commonness  of 
Ethel    and    her    mother.      It    shows    what 
Hankin  thought  of  his  audience  :   "  They  are 
so  stupid  and  vulgar  themselves  that  they 
won't  see  I  mean  these  women  as  vulgar 
unless  I  make  them  positively  gutter-bred." 
His  best  work  is  undoubtedly  The  Last  of 
the  de  Mullins — ^the  story  of  a  girl  who  de- 
liberately breaks  loose  from  the  benumbing 
life  in  a  home  ruled  by  faded  memories  of 
land-owning   and   lineage,  in  order  to  find 
life  and  interest.     Cool  and  practical,  but 
not   impatient   of  her  emotions,  rather  in- 
spired by  them,  she  is  a  curiously  charming 


80      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

figure.  The  whole  work  has  a  tender  richness 
and  appeal.  Both  this  and  (still  more)  The 
Prodigal  are  Ibsenist,  but  at  two  removes, 
for  they  were  clearly  written  under  the 
influence  of  Shaw. 

Mr.  John  Galsworthy  shows  the  strongest 
contrast  to  Hankin.  He  seeks  neither  grace 
nor  sublimity ;  his  sole  aim  is  reform. 
Moved  to  indignation  by  some  social  in- 
justice he  takes  us  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck 
and  forces  us  to  stare  at  the  horror.  His 
hard,  driving,  doctrinaire  manner  is  often 
terribly  inartistic  ;  but  at  least  it  makes  for 
an  athletic  simplicity,  a  clear-cut  structure. 
Yet  he  seems  to  forget  a  vital  truth.  One 
aim  of  the  drama  should  be  to  entertain.  I 
do  not  mean  to  amuse  ;  I  employ  the  word 
"  entertain  "  because  I  cannot  think  of  a 
better  term  for  the  effect  of  art  :  an  austere 
but  solid  satisfaction,  a  quiet  possession  of 
one's  soul,  a  refreshment  of  the  emotions, 
which  is  the  ministration  of  genuine  tragedy 
as  of  genuine  comedy.  Mr.  Galsworthy  often 
seems  too  busy  pommelling  some  special 
form  of  white-waistcoated  iniquity  to  trouble 
about  eternal  truths.  His  less  known  and 
less  effective  plays  are  in  this  respect  more 
successful.     The  Eldest  Son  conveys  a  certain 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  81 

grace  of  background — that  atmosphere  of  a 
country-house  which  Mr.  Galsworthy  has  so 
admirably  given  in  his  novels.  The  Pigeon 
is  half-way  between  emotional  drama,  as  in 
The  Eldest  Son,  and  the  nagging  admonitions 
of  Justice,  It  contains  good  social  satire 
and  well-drawn  types,  especially  an  admir- 
able Frenchman  with  at  least  one  noble 
speech  which  clearly  marks  the  writer's 
kinship  with  Shaw  and  Hankin.  Ferrand 
is  indeed  the  prodigal  Eustace  of  Hankin, 
with  less  calculation  but  more  alertness  and 
profundity.  The  speech  is  Galsworthy's  own 
expression — no  other  dramatist  of  our  time 
could  have  penned  it : — 

Since  I  saw  you,  Monsieur,  I  have  been 
in  three  institutions.  They  are  palaces. 
One  may  eat  upon  the  floor — ^though  it  is 
true — for  kings — they  eat  too  much  of  skilly 
there.  One  little  thing  they  lack — ^Ihose 
palaces.  It  is  understanding  of  the  'uman 
heart.  In  them  tame  birds  pluck  wild  birds 
naked  .  .  .  Oh  !  Monsieur,  I  am  loafer, 
waster — what  you  like — for  all  that  poverty 
is  my  only  crime.  If  I  were  rich,  should  I 
not  be  veree  original,  'ighly  respected,  with 
soul  above  commerce,  travelling  to  see  the 
world  ?  And  that  young  girl,  would  she 
not  be  "  that  charming  ladee,"  "  veree  chic, 
you  know  ! "  And  the  old  Tims — ^good  old- 
6 


82      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

fashioned  gentleman — drinking  his  hquor 
well.  Eh  !  bien — ^what  are  we  now  ?  Dark 
beasts,  despised  by  all. 

The  Silver  Box  (1906)  is  the  earliest  of  the 
plays.  A  dissipated  young  man  of  fair 
position,  and  a  dissipated  young  man  of 
no  position,  both  commit  the  same  offence. 
Each  steals  something  to  spite  some  one 
whom  he  dislikes  —  the  undergraduate  a 
woman's  reticule,  the  ex-groom  a  silver  box. 
For  the  undergraduate  everything  is  made 
easy  by  his  father  the  M.P.,  by  a  discreet 
solicitor,  and  by  the  smooth  negligences  of 
the  law.  No  one  stands  up  for  the  ex- 
groom,  and  he  goes  to  prison  loudly  protesting 
against  the  advantage  given  to  his  brother- 
offender  by  money  and  influence.  Con- 
struction is  given  by  the  ex-groom's  wife, 
who  is  a  charwoman  employed  by  the 
undergraduate's  mother,  and  by  the  fact 
that  the  stolen  box  is  the  property  of  the 
undergraduate's  father.  The  woman  is  ac- 
cused of  stealing  the  box.  After  denying 
the  theft  she  goes  home  to  find  her  husband 
in  possession  of  the  plunder.  ^Vhile  she  is 
reproaching  him,  they  are  surprised  by  a 
detective  sent  by  the  M.P.  The  third  act 
is  concerned  entirely  with  the  scene  in  a 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  83 

police  court,  where  the  sinister  contrast  be- 
tween rich  immunity  and  helpless  poverty 
is  demonstrated  with  pungency.  On  the 
artistic  side  the  play  is  very  good.  All  the 
characters  are  alive,  and  work  together 
admirably  to  produce  dramatic  effect.  There 
is  nothing  exaggerated  or  strained ;  the 
collision  in  the  last  act  is  acute  but  quite 
naturally  induced.  The  propagandist  side 
of  the  drama  does  not  fully  concern  us.  It 
is,  however,  important  to  notice  that  Mr. 
Galsworthy  entirely  agrees  with  the  com- 
ment of  the  unhappy  Jones  :  "  Call  this 
justice  ?  What  about  'im  ?  'E  got  drunk  ! 
'E  took  the  purse — 'E  took  the  purse,  but 
it's  Hs  money  got  Hm  off !  Justice  !  "  With 
this  he  agrees,  and  his  whole  aim  is  to  im- 
press us  with  the  contention  that  men  are 
not  equal  before  the  law.  It  is  not  his 
1  contention,  but  his  method  of  handling  it, 
with  which  we  are  concerned,  and  to  which 
we  shall  return. 

Justice  is  more  simple  in  outline — a  plain 
I  heart-rending  story  of  a  weak  young  man 
iwho,  to  save  the  woman  he  loves  from  a 
[brutal  husband,  determines  to  leave  the 
I  country  with  her,  and  for  this  purpose 
I  swindles  his  employers.     The  fraud  is  dis- 


84      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

covered  before  he  escapes ;  the  result  is  prison 
for  three  years  and  the  utter  ruin  of  his 
life  and  of  the  woman's.  The  whole  second 
act  is  filled  by  an  elaborate  law-court  scene, 
where  Mr.  Galsworthy's  doctrinaire  manner 
reaches  its  apotheosis  in  an  extraordinarily 
long  speech  by  the  counsel  for  the  defence, 
in  which  (here  is  the  vital  point)  the  view 
taken  by  the  playwright  himself  is  given  with 
complete  exactness  as  well  as  eloquence. 
On  the  stage  it  must  take  pretty  nearly  ten 
minutes  to  deliver — a  portentous  length. 
But  Mr.  Galsworthy  intends  to  give  the 
public,  not  what  it  wants  or  thinks  it  wants, 
but  what  it  ought  to  want.  The  speech  is 
not  excused  by  beauty  or  surprising  strokes, 
like  numberless  orations  in  Shakespeare. 
It  has  nothing  but  a  direct  and  simple 
vigour.  "In  those  four  minutes  the  boy 
before  you  has  slipped  through  a  door, 
hardly  opened,  into  that  great  cage  which 
never  again  quite  lets  a  man  go — ^the  cage 
of  the  Law." 

The  third  and  fourth  acts  depict  photo- 
graphically the  prison  life  of  this  youth,  and 
the  maimed  creature  w^ho  at  length  comes 
forth  with  a  ticket-of -leave.  He  cannot 
keep  employment,  he  has  to  forge  references, 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  85 

he  does  not  report  himself  to  the  poHce; 
they  come  for  him  again,  and  he  escapes  only 
by  instant  suicide.  In  artistry  Justice  is 
the  extreme  case  of  photographic  work,  and 
must  take  low  rank.  As  a  piece  of  pro- 
pagandism  it  is  most  effective. 

On  these  two  plays  the  present  dramatic 
reputation  of  Mr.  Galsworthy  chiefly  rests, 
for  his  recent  Skin  Game  recalls  The  Eldest 
Son  without  equalling  it ;  the  atmosphere 
is  admirably  conveyed,  but  the  dramatic 
tone  is  that  of  diluted  melodrama.  He  is 
far  too  much  of  a  pamphleteer  and  too  little 
of  a  poet.  Mr.  Galsworthy's  social  sense,  his 
burning  zeal  for  righteousness  in  the  State, 
command  respect  and  emulation.  And 
every  citizen  has  a  right — it  is  his  duty — 
where  he  thinks  institutions  cruel  and 
wasteful,  to  protest  with  all  his  strength. 
And  he  may  make  his  novel,  even  his 
tragedy,  a  vehicle  for  such  protests.  But 
it  is  vital  beyond  words  that  he  should 
beware  how  he  makes  his  appeal.  Never 
must  he  deliver  a  definite  attack  upon  a 
definite  abuse.  If  he  does,  his  success  may 
be  tremendous  at  the  moment,  but  it  is 
dearly  bought.  He  will  always  be  re- 
membered as  a  partisan  ;    and  his  next  pro- 


86      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

nouncement  will  be  viewed,  by  all  except 
those  convinced  by  his  first,  with  a  potential 
hostility  fatal  to  the  appreciation  of  art. 
They  will  be  alert,  but  with  the  wrong  kind 
of  alertness ;  the  really  eternal  things  he 
has  to  say  have  been  terribly  discounted 
beforehand.  No  ;  our  prophet  of  the  stage 
must  alter,  not  the  catchwords  of  the  hour, 
not  the  policy  of  this  year,  but  the  human 
heart,  the  attitude  of  mind  from  which  these 
policies  spring  and  over  which  such  catch- 
words exercise  their  dominion.  He  must  so 
speak  and  teach  that  the  foolish  opinion 
becomes,  not  merely  discredited,  but  im- 
possible. 

We  turn  now  to  Mr.  Granville  Barker,  j 
who  has  deserved  better  of  the  English  ! 
theatre  than  any  man  living.  As  actor,  \ 
as  manager,  as  producer,  as  playwright,  he  I 
stands  in  the  foremost  rank  ;  he  is  also  one  I 
of  the  chief  agitators  for  a  National  Theatre,  j 
His  plays  are  The  Marrying  of  Ann  Leete,  \ 
The  Voysey  Inheritance,  Waste,  The  Madras  ^ 
House,  and  Prunella,  the  last  being  written  i 
in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Laurence  Housman.  I 
Prunella  is  not  drama  at  all,  but  a  sort  of 
fairy  fantasy ;  it  is  with  the  others,  the  i 
realistic  dramas,  that  we  are  now  concerned.  I 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  87 

Ann  Leete  is  a  picture  of  upper-class  life 
in  the  eighteenth  century.  A  young  girl, 
daughter  of  a  soulless  politician,  is  to  be 
married  in  order  to  further  his  party 
schemes.  She  learns  to  see  through  him 
and  her  suitor.  Before  her  eyes,  moreover, 
is  her  elder  sister,  who  has  been  sacrificed 
in  the  same  way  and  is  now  to  be  divorced 
because  her  father  has  deserted  her  husband's 
party.  Suddenly  Ann  throws  the  whole 
sordid  system  over  and  asks  the  gardener 
to  marry  her ;  she  will  rather  have  the  first 
man  she  sees,  provided  he  is  honest  and 
healthy.  The  play  concludes  with  the  only 
j  beautiful  scene  in  Mr.  Barker's  dramas,  the 
home-coming  of  the  strange  couple  to  their 
poor  little  cottage. 

Many  have  thought  that  Ann  Leete  is  a 
different  type  of  play  from  the  rest,  de- 
ceived by  the  simple  charm  of  the  close  and 
by  the  eighteenth-century  garnishing  of 
post-chaises,  duels,  Brighton,  and  the  like. 
Really  it  is  much  the  same  ;  the  burden  of 
the  whole  is  ;  "  Away  with  shams  !  We 
don't  even  know  what  we  want.  Let  us 
find  out,  and  do  it."  Still,  there  is  in  this 
first  of  Mr.  Barker's  works  a  touch  of  archaic 
beauty,  in  virtue  of  which  Ann  Leete  claims 


88      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

affinity    with    Prunella    as    well    as     with 
Waste, 

The  Voysey  Inheritance  depicts  a  legacy  of 
dishonour.  A  young  solicitor,  admitted  into 
partnership  by  his  father,  discovers  some- 
thing wrong  in  the  administration  of  certain 
trusts.  On  investigation  he  finds  that  his 
father  has  for  many  years  been  guilty  of 
shady  manipulations.  Instructed  to  invest 
money  at  a  low  and  safe  percentage,  he  has 
speculated  in  high,  dangerous  percentages, 
paying  the  correct  dividends  out  of  his  gains. 
This  was  done  in  the  first  instance  to  get 
the  firm  out  of  difficulties.  When  the 
dangers  were  past,  the  buccaneering  instinct 
prompted  him  to  begin  again  ;  it  has  not  only 
created  his  income  but  added  zest  to  the 
grey  decorum  of  a  solicitor's  career.  The 
father,  after  detailing  all  this  in  a  curiously 
clever  gospel  of  immorality,  duly  dies,  and 
Edward  Voysey  is  at  the  head  of  affairs, 
which  are  now  in  a  bad  state.  His  first  idea 
is  to  proclaim  everything  and  take  the 
consequences.  But  he  cannot  bear  to  ruin 
the  small  investors,  and  determines  to  save 
some  of  them  first.  This  he  can  only  do 
by  continuing  his  father's  tactics  ;  he  works 
on,  expecting  exposure  day  by  day.     Soon 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  89 

an  old  friend  of  the  father,  who  has  no 
confidence  in  the  son,  announces  that  he 
wishes  to  withdraw  his  own  large  invest- 
ments from  the  firm.  This  precipitates 
matters.  He  is  told  the  facts,  but  is  bought 
off  (for  the  sake  of  the  poor  clients)  by  a 
promise  of  repayment.  The  end  is  a  picture 
of  young  Voysey  settling  down  to  a  life 
of  toil  in  order  to  repair  his  father's 
ravages. 

Waste  is  another  simply-conceived  story — 
that  of  a  young  statesman,  Henry  Trebell,  a 
genius  who  has  the  originality  to  conceive 
great  schemes  of  reform,  the  talent  necessary 
to  organize  them,  and  the  tenacity  required 
for  achievement.  His  ruin,  and  the  wreck 
of  all  his  glorious  plans,  springs  from  a 
moment's  madness  in  which  he  becomes 
entangled  with  a  married  woman,  a  pas- 
sionately egotistical  but  otherwise  entirely 
null  person.  The  result  of  this  liaison  is 
depicted  with  unflinching  candour.  Mrs. 
O'Connell,  unknown  to  Trebell,  undergoes 
an  illegal  operation,  which  kills  her.  All 
this  becomes  known,  and  his  colleagues 
find  it  necessary  to  throw  Trebell  over. 
The  tragic  fact,  that  a  pretty  shell  of  a 
woman  can  ruin  real  work  and  genuine  hopes. 


90      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

is    here    depicted    with    splendid    skill    and 
verisimilitude. 

The  Madras  House  is  less  strong,  but  more 
complicated  and  varied.  There  is  no  real 
plot,  or  rather  the  formal  plot  is  strangely- 
sundered  from  the  genuine  interest  of  the 
play ;  it  recounts  merely  the  sale  of  a  great 
costume  business  to  a  commercial  but  ro- 
mantic American.  On  this  peg  is  hung 
a  magnificent  fabric  of  discussion,  mainly 
about  the  social  position  of  women.  Female 
assistants  in  large  shops,  the  living-in  system, 
the  life  of  the  normal  married  woman  in 
England,  the  effect  on  men's  work  of  the 
presence  and  co-operation  of  women — ^these 
topics  are  handled  with  brilliant  originality 
and  fluent  eloquence.  The  study  is  made 
dramatic  by  the  contrast  between  Henry 
Huxtable  and  his  partner  Constantine  Mad- 
ras. Huxtable  is  positively  steeped  in  home 
affections  and  Victorian  stolidities ;  one 
feels  that  he  could  not  be  happy  in  Heaven 
without  antimacassars  and  a  marble  clock. 
Madras  is  elaborately  contrasted  with  him 
at  every  point.  Not  only  has  he  so  revolted 
against  English  home  life  that  he  has  de- 
serted his  wife  and  son  many  years  ago  ; 
Mr.  Barker,  in  order  to  provide  the  external 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  91 

point  of  view,  has  actually  converted  him 
to  Mohammedanism,  and  conferred  upon 
him  a  house  and  harem  in  an  Arabian  village. 
This  person's  comments  on  the  Englishman's 
attitude  towards  women  are  both  novel  and 
deadly,  provoking  a  healthy  reaction  or 
commanding  revolution.  The  upshot  is  that 
women  are  a  disturbing  and  destructive 
factor  in  the  ordinary  business  of  the  world ; 
confined  to  the  house  in  the  Eastern  fashion, 
they  would  perform  their  function  of  bright- 
ening life  and  soothing  the  wearied  soul. 
We  thus  arrive,  by  another  road,  at  the 
same  conclusion  as  that  to  be  derived  from 
Waste, 

In  describing  the  plots  of  these  plays,  I 
have  omitted  what  appears  to  many  their 
strongest  feature.  It  is  a  significant  com- 
ment on  Mr.  Barker's  art  that  I  could  so 
omit  them.  In  all  the  four  he  has  devoted 
remarkable  skill  to  depicting  a  number  of 
people,  usually  members  of  one  family, 
whom  he  distinguishes  from  one  another  by 
the  subtlety  of  his  character-drawing.  The 
instance  of  the  Voysey  family  is  celebrated. 
They  swarm  over  the  stage — ^the  swindling 
father ;  the  placidly  deaf  mother ;  the 
rather  priggish  son,  Edward  (the  hero) ;  the 


92      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

eldest  son  Trenchard,  a  clever  and  callous 
barrister ;  other  sons,  Booth  Voysey  the 
absurd  domestic  bully,  and  Hugh  the  artist ; 
then  daughters,  a  daughter's  fiance,  a  son's 
fiancee  and  sons'  wives.  There  was  a  pre- 
monition of  this  tour  de  force  in  the  Leete 
family,  which  in  the  third  act  holds  a  kind 
of  review  of  these  household  troops.  In 
Waste  the  politicians  and  their  equally 
political  wives  and  sisters  interweave  them- 
selves in  an  ingenious  but  confusing  pattern. 
Mr.  Barker  has  received  great  praise — 
deserved  praise — for  this  virtuosity,  and 
seems  to  recognize  in  it  his  special  metier. 
At  any  rate  he  reaches  the  climax  in  the 
first  act  of  The  Madras  House,  where  he 
hurls  at  one's  head  no  less  than  six  daughters 
of  the  Huxtable  line,  all  alike  as  lead  pencils 
after  some  weeks'  use  (as  he  says  himself), 
differing  only  in  length,  sharpening,  and 
wear.  This  first  act  is  a  mist  of  daughters, 
who  circle  round  their  goaded  parent  like 
matadors  round  a  Spanish  bull. 

All  this,  of  course,  is  so  much  photography, 
like  a  great  deal  of  Mr.  Wells'  work.  Both 
Mr.  Wells  and  Mr.  Barker  have  been  much 
lauded  for  it,  and  with  little  discrimination. 
Such  descriptions  are  only  the  raw  material 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  93 

of  a  novel  or  a  play.  If  a  man  makes  it  an 
integral  part  of  his  completed  work,  he  is 
not  necessarily  to  be  praised  for  doing  so,  any 
more  than  a  cook  is  to  be  eulogized  because 
she  has  chosen  the  proper  ingredients  ;  the 
proof  of  the  pudding  is  not  entirely  in  her 
good  intentions.  If  anyone  will  compare 
the  photograph  work  of  Love  and  Mr,  Lewis- 
ham  with  that  of  The  Return  of  the  Native 
he  will  appreciate  this  distinction. 

Now,  Mr.  Barker's  observation  produces 
admirable  work — let  that  be  heartily  granted. 
The  question  is,  how  does  he  employ  these 
photographs  ?  His  intention,  of  course,  is 
to  give  atmosphere,  in  which  we  can  sym- 
pathize with  the  actors  and  understand  the 
bearings  of  the  drama.  And  it  generally  is 
thus  useful.  In  Ann  Leete  the  family  tree 
bears  little  dramatic  fruit ;  it  seems  to  have 
been  shown  merely  to  interest  the  audience 
in  the  elaborate  entanglement  of  aunts  and 
sons-in-law — it  would  not  be  missed  from 
the  genuine  action.  The  Voysey  Inheritance 
marks  a  definite  advance.  Old  Voysey  shows 
up  far  better  at  home  ensconced  in  this 
jungle  of  relatives.  Still  more  to  the  purpose 
is  the  fact  that  we  can  see  the  kind  of  people 
young   Edward   has   to    deal   with,    in   his 


94      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

attempt  to  put  things  right  at  all  costs  to 
his  family.  Even  so,  however,  great  masses 
of  the  dialogue  are  only  first-rate  padding, 
especially  the  delightful  Major,  whose  per- 
sonality is  that  of  a  strenuous  blue-bottle. 
The  statesmen  and  political  ladies  of  Waste 
show  a  further  improvement.  Carefully 
studied  for  their  own  sakes,  they  are  more 
germane  to  the  action  than  the  Voyseys. 
It  is  essential  that  Trebell  should  be  under- 
stood in  contrast  with  the  more  ordinary 
types  of  legislator  ;  and  Mr.  Barker  does 
give  us  a  valuable  background,  the  governing- 
class  atmosphere,  with  extraordinary  skill. 
Finally,  in  The  Madras  House  this  aspect  is 
more  dramatic  again.  If  we  are  to  study 
domesticity,  it  is  essential  to  give  an  elabo- 
rately clear  picture  of  one  man's  home  life. 

This  dramatist's  writings  exhibit  a  second 
characteristic  of  even  greater  moment — ^the 
set  discussion.  I  do  not,  of  course,  mean 
only  the  working  out  of  a  situation  by  talk. 
Every  dramatist  above  the  mask-and-re- 
volver  level  practises  that.  I  refer  to  the 
habit  of  set  debate,  discussion  almost  as 
elaborate  and  self-conscious  as  in  a  debating 
club.  It  is  herein  that  Mr.  Barker  is  most 
advanced — ^I    will    not    commit    myself    to 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  95 

saying  towards  what  he  has  advanced  ;  but 
he  has  certainly  gone  beyond  Ibsen.  In  this 
regard  Ann  Leete  does  show  an  authentic 
difference  from  the  later  plays  ;  there  is  no 
debate  at  all.  But  The  Voysey  Inheritance 
has  a  good  deal  of  it.  The  Madras  House  has 
more,  and  it  is  not  vital  to  the  plot.  Waste  is 
a  positive  portent  from  the  present  point  of 
view.  Trebell  is  talking  all  the  time,  and  he 
talks  like  a  Blue-book  drastically  revised  by  a 
wary  archangel.  Around  him  is  a  whole  galaxy 
of  lesser  talkers,  all  mouthpieces  for  various 
opinions.  The  only  fine  creation  is  Amy 
O'Connell,  but  she  is  magnificently  drawn. 
P^The  most  distinguished  member  of  this 
school  is  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw ;  among  the 
writers  whom  we  are  discussing  he  is  not 
only  the  most  brilliant,  he  is  the  most  like 
Ibsen.  In  his  evidence  before  the  Com- 
mission on  the  Censorship  he  remarked  that 
his  special  work  was  the  composition  of 
immoral  plays.  This  boast  is  the  clue  to 
his  art  as  it  is  to  that  of  his  Norwegian  pre- 
decessor. Realizing  the  waste  that  comes 
from  a  blind  adoration  of  the  status  quo^  he 
insists  on  revising  current  conventions  ;  if 
anything  has  been  unquestioned  for  more 
than  a  dozen  years  it  is  in  his  eyes  open  to 


96      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

the  worst  suspicion.  Mr.  Shaw's  method  is 
to  take  a  romantic  situation,  dear  to  the 
unreal  stage  of  pre-Ibsen  days,  and  to 
develop  that  situation  in  his  own  way — a 
way  novel,  and  therefore  literally  shocking, 
to  the  unwary  spectator,  but  (as  its  author 
claims)  thoroughly  true  to  life.  Thus  The 
DeviVs  Disciple  contains  the  melodramatic 
conception  of  a  wastrel  who  takes  a  good 
man's  place  at  the  gallows,  and  so  saves  him 
for  his  wife  and  his  work.  Now,  beyond  all 
question,  the  seasoned  playgoer  expects  two 
things.  One  is  a  mass  of  heroics  about  self- 
sacrifice.  Anyone  could  write  them  :  "  I've 
been  the  devil's  disciple  throughout  my 
life  ;  but,  by  Heaven,  in  my  death  I'll  serve 
something  or  Some  One  higher  than  that  !  " 
But  the  Shavian  leopard  cannot  change  its 
spots  ;  Dick  Dudgeon  merely  explains  that 
when  the  soldiers  came  for  the  minister  and 
arrested  himself  by  mistake,  though  one 
word  would  have  taken  the  noose  from  his 
own  neck  and  put  it  round  another  man's, 
he  found  he  simply  could  not  utter  it.  The 
other  feature  that  was  inevitable  a  few  years 
ago  is  a  sudden  love  for  the  minister's  wife 
springing  up  in  Dudgeon's  heart  at  the 
critical  hour  :    *'  Yes,  I  love  her  !     And  how 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  97 

could  my  love  show  itself  more  nobly  than 
by  saving  her  husband  at  the  cost  of  my  own 
worthless  life  ?  And  she  shall — ^never — 
know ! "  Nothing  of  the  kind.  He  has 
little  interest  in  the  lady,  but  he  cannot  save 
himself  at  the  expense  of  an  absent  man — 
that  is  all.  At  this  point  should  be  related 
a  most  exasperating  but  laughable  proof  of 
the  strength  of  tradition.  When  The  DeviVs 
Disciple  was  first  produced,  its  author  was 
out  of  England.  The  part  of  Dick  Dudgeon 
was  acted  by  no  less  an  artist  than  Sir 
Johnston  Forbes-Robertson.  Now,  in  spite 
of  the  obvious  trend  of  the  action,  the  spirit 
of  the  play,  the  very  words  of  the  dialogue,  the 
actor  was  so  steeped  in  theatrical  tradition 
that,  in  the  midst  of  his  colloquy  with  the 
minister's  wife,  he  surreptitiously  lifted  a  curl 
of  her  hair  and  kissed  it.  Could  anything  show 
more  plainly  through  what  a  mass  of  dead  con- 
vention the  new  drama  has  to  dig  its  way  ? 

Of  this  anti-romantic  method  Ccesar  and 
Cleopatra,  in  spite  of  its  gorgeous  setting 
and  august  personages,  is  in  all  essentials 
another  example.  The  mightiest  Julius  is 
here  little  more  than  the  Shavian  spirit 
wearing  a  breastplate  and  similar  trappings  ; 
I  hasten  to  add  that  he  is  delightful  beyond 


98       THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

words — one  of  the  most  virile,  fresh,  gripping 
personahties  in  Hterature.  He  passes  through 
the  play,  the  incarnation  of  inspired  com- 
mon-sense, pricking  mercilessly  the  bubbles 
of  vanity,  sham  ideals,  and  hypocrisy,  spar- 
ing neither  others  nor  himself.  An  oppor- 
tunist in  detail,  he  has  a  genuine  ideal, 
peace  and  sane  government  for  the  Roman 
world. 

Mr.  Shaw's  most  recent  plays  are  Heart- 
break  House  and  Back  to  Methuselah,  The 
former  claims  to  present  in  the  manner  of 
{e.g.)  Tchekof  the  chaotic  state  of  con- 
temporary English  society  and  ideas ;  its 
technique  is  clever,  but  no  less  chaotic  than 
its  theme.  Back  to  Methuselah  consists  of 
a  preface  and  five  short  plays  depicting 
and  discussing  the  necessity  to  extend  in- 
definitely the  length  of  human  life.  In  this 
work  Mr.  Shaw  passes  practically  outside 
the  purview  of  dramatic  criticism.  On  the 
one  hand,  these  i\ve  "parts"  are  (strictly 
speaking)  not  plays  at  all,  but  static  pre- 
sentations of  phases  in  the  history  of  Man's 
relation  to  the  conditions  of  his  life.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Shaw  has  not  tried 
to  write  drama  at  all,  in  the  ordinary  sense. 
His  prefaces  have  always  been  important; 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  99 

but  here  the  preface  is  the  main  part  of  the 
book,  while  the  plays  are  merely  long 
appendices.  He  puts  forward  a  history  of 
biological  theory  and  develops  therefrom  a 
sketch  of  what  he  regards  as  the  sound 
scientific  religion  of  the  future.  Man  must 
evolve  the  power  to  live  for  an  indefinitely 
long  period,  because  only  so  can  he  fulfil  the 
purpose  of  the  Life-Force.  All  this  is  set 
forth  with  an  erudition,  a  philosophic  vigour 
and  breadth  of  comprehension,  which  awake 
the  liveliest  admiration  and  gratitude.  Be- 
side this  preface  the  plays  themselves  are 
like  the  performances  wherewith  school- 
children are  encouraged  to  realize  the  great- 
ness of  Alfred  or  Cromwell. 

For  several  reasons  we  must  not  attempt 
a  complete  survey  of  Mr.  Shaw's  work.  Let 
us  merely  note  certain  dominant  facts.  One 
point  that  he  presses  ruthlessly  upon  us  is 
the  importance  of  instinct.  We  saw  how 
Richard  Dudgeon's  "  heroism  "  was  analysed 
as  neither  cynicism  nor  divinity,  but  blind 
impulse.  So  too  in  Blanco  Posnet  the 
abandoned  scoundrel  acts  like  a  courageous 
gentleman,  and  curses  himself  afterwards  for 
doing  so ;  instinct  forces  him  to  risk  his  life 
by  surrendering  his  horse  to  the  lone  woman 


1 

100      THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF  1| 

and  her  sick  child.  Major  Barbara  has  an  | 
instinct  for  saving  men  from  themselves  '-! 
which  survives  even  the  collapse  of  what 
she  thought  most  fundamental  in  her  life. 
In  Androcles  and  the  Lion  we  observe 
the  same  power  of  impulse  ;  none  of  the 
martyrs,  different  in  type  as  they  are,  acts 
from  deliberate  valour  or  calculation  or  even 
clearly  understood  religious  belief.  Lavinia 
can  give  no  reason  for  her  sacrifice  of  life  ; 
Ferrovius  flings  away  his  crown  of  glory 
because  war  is  in  his  veins;  and  the 
wretched  Spintho,  who  seeks  martyrdom 
that  his  rascally  life  may  be  followed  by 
eternal  joy,  flings  away  his  scheme  at  the 
last  moment — ^through  instinct  again. 

It  is  on  these  lines  that  Mr.  Shaw  studies 
love  between  the  sexes,  a  subject  to  which, 
more  than  any  other,  he  has  devoted  his 
rare  psychological  insight  and  sincerity  of 
expression.  Man  and  Superman  contains 
the  fullest  account  of  his  theory.  In  the 
first  place,  love  has  nothing  to  do  with 
intellect,  compatibility,  wisdom,  public 
spirit,  perception  of  beauty  or  of  noble 
character ;  it  is  simply  Nature  (instinct 
again,  the  instinct  of  the  Universe)  which 
throws    two    people     into    one     another's 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  ^  ^  i  :'  >  Igi 
arms.  And  secondly,  it  is  the  woman  who 
woos,  the  man  who  is  won ;  the  woman 
who  pursues,  the  man  who — runs  away, 
to  be  blunt.  In  this  view  it  must  be  owned 
that  Shaw  has  support  from  two  great 
authors  who  certainly  never  heard  of  Ibsen  ; 
namely  Shakespeare  and  Dickens.  The 
Gloria  and  Valentine  of  You  never  can  Tell 
are  trembling  combatants  in  this  duel  of 
sex;  more  hardy  fighters  are  Charteris 
and  Julia  in  The  Philanderers;  Widowers^ 
Houses  presents  the  same  type,  but  of  com- 
moner grain,  in  Harry  Trench  and  Blanche 
Sartorius  ;  similar,  in  a  more  delicate  and 
repressed  manner,  are  Major  Barbara  and 
Cusins  ;  the  same  conflict,  more  poignant 
perhaps  than  ever,  thrills  through  John 
BulVs  Other  Island,  Getting  Married  is  no 
duel  of  this  kind ;  it  is  a  general  engagement, 
horse,  foot,  and  guns,  between  four  men 
and  four  women.  But  Man  and  Superman 
is  the  most  elaborate  presentation,  and  with 
finely  dramatic  audacity  it  includes  an 
actual  flight  of  the  man,  breaking  records 
indeed  in  his  motor-car,  but  nevertheless 
overtaken  on  his  way  to  a  Mohammedan 
country  where,  as  he  says,  men  are  pro- 
tected from  women. 


W    THE  PHESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

This  great  play  leads  us  on  to  the  next 
topic — Mr.  Shaw's  ability  and  usefulness  as 
a  constructive  thinker.  For  the  third  act, 
the  famous  dream  sometimes  separately 
played  under  the  title  Don  Juan  in  Hell,  is 
at  once  the  most  highly-wrought  instance  of 
the  dramatic  discussion  above  referred  to, 
and  an  apparently  complete  pronouncement 
of  the  writer's  positive  philosophy.  As 
argumentative  eloquence  it  is  one  of  the 
glories  of  English  literature  ;  as  a  gospel 
it  is  a  lugubrious  failure.  The  high  mission 
of  Man  is  to  carry  on  the  will  of  the  Universe  ; 
Heaven  is  a  state  in  which  his  efforts  to 
understand  that  will  are  to  be  unclouded  by 
the  preoccupations  of  the  flesh.  But  what 
the  will  of  the  world  is  we  are  not  told,  and 
the  goal  of  Man  is — ^to  go  on  striving  towards 
a  goal,  the  latter  goal  being  apparently 
unknown.  This  is  but  a  vague  boon  in  place 
of  an  orthodox  Heaven,  just  as  Mr.  Shaw's 
much  adored  Life-Force  is  an  unsatisfactory 
substitute  for  a  personal  Deity.  There  is 
in  this,  however,  little  to  disturb  us,  unless 
we  are  to  demand  perfection  from  our 
leaders.  Shaw  is  not  a  builder,  but  a  de- 
stroyer. To  create  a  new  world  is  noble  and 
necessary ;  it  is  equally  necessary  and  little  less 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  103 

noble  to  clear  the  ground  of  whatever  false 
creeds  and  sham  civilizations  encumber  it. 

More  than  any  other,  Mr.  Shaw  is  a 
master  of  the  dramatic  epigram.  In  sheer 
brilliance,  amazing  as  he  is,  Congreve  and 
Wilde  perhaps  surpass  him ;  but  there  is  an 
immense  distinction  to  be  made.  Congreve 
and  Wilde  seem  to  have  written  plays  for 
the  sake  of  working  off  epigrams.  Shaw  uses 
his  wit  to  point  the  play.  Wilde's  epigrams 
are  fireworks  ;  Shaw's  are  beacons.  A-Miat 
could  be  better  than  this  from  Candida  ? 

MoRELL  :  Eugene,  my  boy  :  you  are 
making  a  fool  of  yourself.  There's  a  piece 
of  wholesome  plain  speaking  for  you. 

Maechbanks  :  Oh,  do  you  think  I  don't 
know  all  that  ?  Do  you  think  that  the 
things  people  make  fools  of  themselves  about 
are  any  less  real  and  true  than  the  things 
they  behave  sensibly  about  ? 

This  is  more  than  clever.  It  is  an 
astounding  illumination  to  almost  every  one 
who  hears  it  for  the  first  time,  both  amusing 
him  and  teaching  him  wisdom.  Still  more, 
it  reveals  the  secret  of  Eugene's  terrible 
power — ^^that  of  a  naked  soul  whose  weapon 
is  an  indifference  to  the  ready  grin  of  the 
crowd  at  the  man  who  does  not  hide  his 
feelings.     Through  this  power  he  reveals  the 


104     THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

real  woman  behind  Miss  Garnett's  brassy 
respectability,  the  inmost  soul  of  the  super- 
ficially benevolent  Candida,  the  unsuspected 
weakness  of  Morell  the  clergyman.  So  with 
Larry  Doyle's  comparison  of  an  Englishman 
to  a  caterpillar  in  the  first  act  of  John  BulVs 
Other  Island  :  the  caterpillar  makes  himself 
look  like  a  leaf  so  that  the  birds  may  over- 
look him,  while  he  devours  the  real  leaves  ; 
so  does  the  Englishman  pretend  to  be  a  fool 
that  clever  people  may  not  meddle  with  him 
while  he  eats  up  all  the  real  fools.  This 
makes  us  laugh  at  the  time,  and  it  is  the 
quintessence  of  all  the  rest  of  the  play. 
Broadbent  wins  a  seat  in  Parliament  and  a 
wife  by  his  apparently  whole-hearted  idiocy. 

Let  us  finally  point  to  one  more  dramatist, 
the  lamented  George  Calderon,  whose  Fountain 
is  a  play  of  extraordinary  merit.  Prefixed  to 
it  is  a  little  jewel  of  a  preface  in  which  Mr, 
Calderon  repudiates  the  charge  (or  eulogium) 
of  Shavianism  ;  he  claims  to  have  expressed 
"  a  truth  which  never  entered  the  Shavian 
head."  This  truth  is  hinted  at  in  the  motto 
(taken  from  Longfellow,  of  all  pre-Ibsenists 
under  the  sun  !)  :  "  That  which  the  fountain 
sends  forth  returns  again  to  the  fountain." 

The     play     deals    with      slum-work.      A 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  105 

spirited  girl  goes  to  live  among  the  poor  and 
thriftless.  She  does  all  she  can  to  cheer  and 
help  them,  even  instituting  a  pawnshop  of 
a  most  unbusinesslike  kind.  Then,  finding 
(naturally  enough)  that  she  has  too  little 
money,  she  asks  her  solicitors  to  improve 
her  investments.  They  refuse.  She  changes 
her  solicitors,  gets  more  money  for  her 
work,  but  is  daunted  to  hear  almost  at 
the  same  time  that  the  rents  of  her  flock 
have  been  raised.  And  so  the  thing  goes 
on,  the  exactions  of  the  slum-landlord  keep- 
ing pace  with  her  endeavours  to  aid  the 
poor.  Her  rage  against  the  oppressor  grows 
almost  hourly,  till  she  finds  by  accident  that 
the  landlord  is  herself,  and  the  increase  of 
funds  for  social  work  has  been  obtained  by 
rackrenting  the  objects  of  her  charity.  The 
whole  thing  is  written  with  strength  and 
ingenious  simplicity.  The  dialogue  is  charm- 
ingly crisp  and  witty,  the  atmosphere  rich 
and  convincing.  Of  all  modern  English  plays 
it  is  the  only  one  not  by  Mr.  Shaw  which  is 
comparable  to  Mr.  Shaw's  best  work. 

If  I  am  to  sum  up  my  view  of  the  English 
Ibsenists,  it  is  this.  Hankin  is  a  blend  of 
the  old  stagey  school  represented  by  Pinero, 
of  Ibsenism  as   expounded  in  England  by 


106    THE  PRESENT  RENAISSANCE  OF 

Shaw,  and  of  the  superficial  society-comedy 
cultivated  by  Wilde.  Mr.  Galsworthy  is  a 
propagandist  who  uses  his  "  sense  of  the 
theatre  "  and  his  perception  of  psychology 
too  often  as  an  engine  of  controversy.  Mr. 
Barker  is  almost  as  much  of  a  pamphleteer, 
but  also  more  of  an  artist.  A  little  insistent 
and  shrill,  he  has  carried  the  Ibsen  manner 
into  new  and  dubious  developments.  Mr. 
Shaw  is  a  great  artist,  a  superb  wit,  and  a 
preacher  of  doctrines  too  often  unsatisfying 
even  when  they  are  satisfactory.  Calderon 
is  a  Shavian  with  no  Shavian  shibboleths. 
Of  the  school  as  a  whole  it  may  be  said  that 
they  are  good  workmen,  overrated  as  apostles 
and  decried  as  charlatans.  Hankin,  Barker, 
and  Galsworthy  are  good  dramatists  in  the 
sense  in  which  the  man  who  made  this 
writing-table  was  a  good  workman ;  but 
he  was  not  a  Hepplewhite  or  a  Sheraton, 
neither  are  they  Ibsens.  There  are  two 
reasons  for  the  unduly  high  praise  given  to 
these  playwrights  by  many  excellent  critics. 
Firstly,  they  deserve  great  attention,  if  not 
applause,  for  the  opinions  which  they  hold 
and  expound.  But  this  has  nothing  in  the 
world  to  do  with  their  merits  as  playwrights. 
(It  is  neglect  of  this  obvious  distinction,  by 


ENGLISH  DRAMA  107 

the  bye,  which  has  caused  Mr.  Shaw  to 
lavish  amazing  eulogies  upon  that  third-rate 
writer,  Brieux.)  Secondly,  they  do  their 
work  sincerely  and  well,  and  English  play- 
goers compare  them,  not  with  Ibsen,  but 
with  their  English  predecessors  and  con- 
temporaries. When  Robinson  Crusoe,  after 
many  years  spent  in  conversation  with  a 
sohtary  parrot,  found  a  companion  in  Man 
Friday,  he  did  not  at  once  complain  of  his 
primitive  costume  or  his  taste  in  the  arts. 
Nor  does  the  cultivated  playgoer  pick  holes 
in  The  Voysey  Inheritance  or  The  Return 
of  the  Prodigal  after  the  lucubrations  of 
Robertson,  Marston,  and  their  kin.  Neverthe- 
less our  present  leaders  are  mostly  but  good 
second-rate  writers  if  viewed  by  really  high 
standards.  Mr.  Shaw  is  undoubtedly  above 
this  level,  but  it  is  legitimate  to  conjecture 
that  his  best  achievement  lies  behind  him. 

A  splendid  feature  of  this  renaissance  is 
the  rise  of  repertory  theatres  in  Birmingham, 
Glasgow,  Dublin,  and  elsewhere.  These  are 
a  welcome  sign  that  the  provinces  are  be- 
ginning to  escape  from  the  real  blight 
of  provincialism —that  humble  waiting  on 
London  for  the  scraps  of  inferior  bread 
which  she  chooses  to  fling.    Even  now,  for  the 


108   RENAISSANCE  OF  ENGLISH  DRAMA 

majority  of  our  people  the  discussion  set  up 
in  this  essay  is  an  academic  discussion  only  ; 
the  Renaissance  of  English  Drama  passes 
us  by,  unless  we  have  a  taste  for  reading 
plays  or  are  able  to  visit  London.  Many 
an  English  city,  renowned  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  for  its  commerce  and  material  enter- 
prise, is  content  to  see  in  its  theatre  from 
year's  end  to  year's  end  nothing  better  than 
loose  French  farces  produced  at  second-hand, 
or  miserably  empty  and  derivative  English 
pieces  sent  on  "  the  road "  as  "  London 
successes."  But  of  late,  as  we  said,  there  are 
signs,  not  only  of  renewed  life  in  the  drama 
itself,  but  in  the  popular  feeling  about  that 
form  of  art.  The  high  cost  of  travel  and 
other  difficulties  are  compelling  provincial 
towns  to  forgo  the  work  sent  down  from 
London,  and  willy-nilly  to  foster  local 
amateur  enterprise.  To  exchange  the  ordi- 
nary revue,  presented  by  jaded  third-rate 
professionals,  for  Twelfth  Night  or  The  Silver 
Box,  presented  by  enthusiastic  amateurs, 
is  an  immense  reform.  We  may  yet  see 
dramatic  art  once  more  a  function  of  the 
national  culture. 


THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 
OF  DRAMA 

DESPITE  the  vast  accumulation  of 
written  and  oral  criticism  which  has 
been  devoted  to  particular  plays,  to 
acting  and  stage  management,  to  the  types 
of  drama,  and  to  drama  itself  as  distin- 
guished from  other  forms  of  art,  there  is 
room,  and  even  demand,  for  a  plain  and 
comparatively  brief  statement  setting  forth 
the  principles  on  which  all  sound  dramatic 
work  is  constructed.  Anyone  who  attempts 
such  a  statement  must  be  fearlessly  dogmatic  : 
detailed  reservations  and  periodical  expres- 
sions of  self-distrust,  though  manifestly  re- 
quired in  an  elaborate  disquisition,  would 
impair  the  usefulness  of  a  mere  introduction 
to  the  subject.  This  dogmatic  method  can 
mislead  no  one  ;  the  alleged  facts  are  derived 
from  induction,  and  the  reader  from  moment 
to  moment  may  test  them  by  reference  to 
any    play    which    he    thinks    fit    to    select. 

Considerations  of  space  have  made  it  neces- 

109 


I 

110   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

sary  to  omit  all  save  quite  necessary  allusions 
to  well-known  theories. 

"  Drama "  is  a  Greek  word  meaning 
"  action,"  "  thing  done,"  and  it  might  there- 
fore be  supposed  that  a  play  is  merely  the 
reproduction,  by  imitation,  of  some  act  or 
series  of  acts.  Not  so ;  the  name  points 
to  the  artistic  medium,  not  the  thing  pre- 
sented and  as  presented.  All  that  it  implies 
is  that  the  artist  uses,  not  pigments  or 
musical  notes,  but  speaking  and  moving 
human  beings,  as  his  raw  material.  An 
imitation  by  real  people  of  such  an  event 
as  Caesar's  landing  in  Britain,  or  the  sealing 
of  Magna  Charta,  is  by  no  means  necessarily 
dramatic,  however  exciting  the  spectacle, 
however  important  the  event  portrayed. 
It  may  be  theatrical — ^that  is,  it  may,  by 
exaggerated  gestures,  tones,  and  language, 
amid  a  skilful  setting,  convey  an  impres- 
sion of  momentousness ;  but  theatricality 
and  drama  are  not  the  same  thing.  A  true 
definition  can  be  gathered  only  from  the 
achievement  of  those  whom  the  world  in 
general  has  agreed  to  look  upon  as  good 
dramatists. 

What,  then,  is  that  feature,  or  what  are 
those    features,    which    all    plays    exhibit  ? 


OF  DRAMA  111 

One  element,  and  no  other,  is  invariably 
present  :  a  difficulty  appropriately  solved. 
Drama  is  the  presentation  by  living  persons 
of  a  complication  in  life  and  of  the  unravel-  / 
ling  as  effected  by  their  interplay.  It  is  N 
not  merely  mimic  action,  but  mimic  action 
governed  by  a  "  plot."  At  the  close  of  the 
first  stage — in  a  modern  play  the  first  Act 
— some  quite  definite  question,  with  all  its 
difficulties  realized,  must  be  placed  before  us 
and  awaken  our  urgent  interest.  It  may 
refer  to  the  broadest  hopes  or  fears  of 
humanity — \^Tiither  will  Faust's  titanic  am- 
bition lead  him  ?  How  will  Hamlet  face 
the  duty  laid  upon  him  by  his  father's 
spirit  ?  Or  it  may  be  narrow,  even  trivial, 
though  attractive  —  Wliich  man  will  the 
heroine  marry  ?  Will  the  dispatches  reach 
Grant  in  safety  ?  After  reading  or  wit- 
nessing the  first  Act  we  should  be  able  to 
express  in  one  sentence,  yet  completely, 
the  question  of  the  play.  Some  difficulty, 
puzzle,  problem,  or  mystery  is  as  essential 
to  a  drama  as  sap  to  a  tree.  Without  it,  no 
magnificence  in  the  characterization  of  Hamlet 
or  Faust,  no  charm  or  wit  of  the  heroine, 
no  historical  colour  or  life-like  portrayal  of 
American  generals,  can  make  the  work  into 


112  THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 
a  drama.  The  interlude  of  Mak  in  the 
Miracle-Play  is  as  truly  dramatic,  though 
it  deals  but  with  the  detection  of  a  sheep- 
stealer,  as  is  Agamemnon  or  Macbeth,  For 
whatever  mimic  performance  has  plot  is 
drama,  and  whatever  lacks  plot  is  not 
drama,  no  matter  how  admirable  its  mount- 
ing, its  dialogue,  its  psychology.  Just  as 
Robinson  Crusoe,^  for  all  its  interest  and 
power,  is  no  novel,  since  it  has  no  plot,  but 
is  to  be  called  a  tale,  so  Henry  the  Sixth 
is  no  series  of  plays,  but  a  chronicle. 

The  instance  of  Robinson  Crusoe  may  help 
us  to  greater  precision  of  thought.  Is  it 
true  that  there  is  no  question  or  puzzle  in 
the  book's  early  stages  ?  Do  we  not  wonder 
how  the  hero  will  escape  from  his  island- 
prison,  and  even  more  what  kind  of  existence 
he  will  evolve  for  himself  in  his  years  of 
solitude  ?  Is  not  this,  then,  a  plot  ?  And 
do  we  not   meet  with  a  solution  ?     True  ; 

1  The  first  draft  of  this  essay  was  written  before  I  read 
Mr.  William  Archer's  Playmaking,  and  I  am  interested  to 
observe  that  he  remarks  (p.  25)  :  "  If  we  want  to  see  will 
struggling  against  obstacles,  the  classic  to  turn  to  is  not 
Hamlet,  not  Lear,  but  Robinson  Crusoe  ;  yet  no  one,  except 
a  pantomime  librettist,  ever  saw  a  drama  in  Defoe's  narra- 
tive." If  the  reader  chances  not  to  know  Mr.  Archer's 
book,  I  take  this  opportunity  of  recommending  it  enthusi- 
astically for  its  learning,  skill,  lucidity,  and  artistic  common 
sense. 


OF  DRAMA  113 

we  may  ask  ourselves  these  questions — we 
are  certain  to  do  so  if  we  are  really  inter- 
ested. But  here  is  the  vital  point  :  the 
question  does  not  form  the  substance  of  the 
action ;  it  is  only  the  natural  outcome 
thereof  in  our  own  minds.  The  substance 
of  the  action  is  a  series  of  interesting  events  : 
his  shipwreck,  his  despoiling  of  the  stranded 
vessel,  his  discovery  of  a  footprint  or  a 
dying  goat,  his  illness,  and  the  like.  It  is 
not  the  fact  that  the  earlier  part  of  the 
story  is  unified  and  organized  by  its  for- 
mulating in  action  some  difficulty  which  we 
necessarily  look  to  see  surmounted,  some 
problem  the  unguessed  answer  to  which  we 
confidently  await.  Contrast  with  this  the 
early  scenes  of  some  pla}^  Whereas  Defoe 
gives  us  a  mere  succession  of  events,  having 
no  vital  connexion,  joined  together  only  by 
the  fact  that  they  all  concern  the  same  man, 
in  a  drama  the  successive  happenings  are  ^ 
woven  together  into  an  organism.  Each  \ 
scene  is  interesting  and  clear  in  itself,  but 
it  also  gains  and  bestows  value  through  its 
I  juxtaposition  with  others.  Omit  Crusoe's 
I  parcelling  of  his  gunpowder,  and  we  do  no 
I  harm  to  any  other  episode.  But  omit 
!  Macbeth's    first    meeting    with   the   "  weird 


114   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

sisters,"  or  even  the  scene  of  the  "  bloody 
sergeant,"  and  we  lose  something  not  only 
excellent  in  itself,  but  of  plain  importance 
to  our  appreciation  of  the  murder-scenes  and 
the  final  combat,  indeed  of  the  whole  play. 

What  has  been  said  so  far  relates  to  the 
question-part  of  the  drama  ;  but  analogous 
remarks  might  be  made  about  the  answer- 
part,  the  denouement  or  "  untying  of  the 
knot."  The  answer  or  solution  must  be 
evolved  by  the  interaction  of  the  characters 
— ^the  later  scenes  must  be  observed  to 
come  out  of  the  earlier  ;  to  come  out,  not 
necessarily  to  grow  out,  for  we  are  talking 
at  present  of  drama  in  the  widest  sense. 
^In  a  good  play  the  solution  will  arise  organi- 
/  cally  out  of  the  question  itself ;  in  coarse 
drama  it  may  merely  leap  out  surprisingly. 
The  answer  may  depend  wholly  on  some 
hitherto  unguessed  revelation  that  the  hero- 
ine is  the  villain's  daughter.  That  would 
be  poor  drama ;  but  bad  drama  is  still 
drama.  In  a  first-rate  play  the  whole  solu- 
tion is  inherent  in  the  terms  of  the  problem, 
though  no  spectator  has  the  subtlety  and 
wisdom  fully  to  foresee  it.  But  more  will 
be  said  later  on  this  important  topic. 

Other  features  of  a  playwright's  work  are 


OF  DRAMA  115 

momentous,  but  there  is  none  which  stands 
on  the  same  plane  as  structure,  or  plot.^ 
All  drama  by  its  nature  must  have  that ; 
the  others  can  be  dispensed  with,  and  often 
are  dispensed  with,  in  certain  types  of  play. 
It  therefore  becomes  necessary  at  this  point  to 
distinguish  the  various  forms  of  dramatic  art. 
There  are  four  chief  types.  The  dramatist 
has  always,  as  we  saw,  to  deal  with  some 
tangle  in  human  life,  but  his  treatment  will 
vary  according  to  his  philosophy  of  life  and 
according  to  his  temperament.  The  first 
factor  will  determine  whether  he  shall  por- 
tray life  as  serious  or  as  absurd,  there  being 
of  course  arguments  on  both  sides.  The 
second  factor  determines  whether  his  treat- 

1  This  statement  conflicts  strongly  with  the  marked 
trend  of  modern  criticism  in  England.  Professor  Bradley's 
justly  famous  Shakespearean  Tragedy  deals  far  more  with 
the  psychology  of  Hamlet  or  Macbeth  than  with  the  struc- 
ture of  their  plays.  The  same  tendency  is  the  main  feature 
of  Professor  C.  E.  Vaughan's  Types  of  Tragic  Drama  ; 
and  Mr.  St.  John  Ervine,  in  an  Observer  of  1920,  has 
asked,  "What  is  the  plot  of  Hamlet?"  with  the  impli- 
;  cation  that  the  reply  makes  no  matter.  To  deal  with 
this  wide  topic  adequately  is  impossible  here.  It  can 
only  be  said  (i)  that  the  dictum  offered  above,  like  the 
;' whole  essay,  is  based  on  consideration  of  drama  ancient 
[  as  well  as  modern  ;  (ii)  that  plot  is  in  Shakespeare,  though 
1  highly  important,  yet  less  important  on  the  whole  than  in 
■Sophocles.  Nevertheless,  if  one  does  detect  the  peripeteia 
;of  Hamlet — the  death  of  Polonius — one  finds  even  more 
I  interest  in  that  masterpiece  than  before. 


116        THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

ment  shall  be  profound  or  superficial.  If 
a  play  presents  the  solemn  view  of  life  with 
depth,  so  that  the  action  is  clearly  felt  to 
typify  the  concerns  of  all  humanity,  the  play 
is  a  tragedy.  Its  superficial  counterpart  is 
melodrama :  there  may  be  found  in  a 
melodrama  as  much  sorrow,  sin,  and  death 
as  any  tragic  play  contains,  but  our  imagina- 
tion (for  whatever  reason)  is  not  led  onwards 
and  upwards  from  individual  to  universal 
concerns.  So  with  the  treatment  which 
envisages  the  absurd.  Comedy  is  drama 
that  studies  universal  interests  and  depicts 
their  meaning  or  influence,  quite  as  certainly 
as  does  the  tragic  method,  but  it  enlightens 
us  through  our  sense  of  laughter,  not  of 
tears  or  horror.  Its  superficial  counterpart 
is  farce — ^the  employment  of  the  ludicrous 
to  engage  our  attention  in  what  does  not 
touch  our  own  heart  or  interests. 

These  four  types  one  might  perhaps  expect 
on  general  grounds  to  approximate  to  one 
another.  This  does  at  times  occur.^  A 
tragedy  may  interest  us  more  in  the  special 
instance  than  in  the  universal  aspect  raised 

1  So  Mr.  C.  E.  Montague  in  his  delightful  Dramatic 
Values  (p.  27)  mentions  "  the  tang  of  grotesque  tragedy 
which  there  is  in  many  of  the  best  farces  and  which  helps 
to  make  George  Dandin  one  of  the  best  in  the  world." 


OF  DRAMA  117 

by  it ;  and  in  this  way  tragedy  would  merge 
into  melodrama.  There  are,  for  example, 
a  number  of  fairly  good  reasons  for  regarding 
even  Othello  as  no  less  a  melodrama  than  a 
tragedy.  So  with  comedy  and  farce.  The 
best  "  comic  "  scene  in  the  whole  range  of 
letters — ^the  passage  in  Henry  the  Fourth 
where  Falstaff  describes  the  Gadshill  ad- 
venture— ^is  as  much  farce  as  comedy.  Still 
further,  it  is  possible  for  tragedy  and  comedy 
themselves  to  merge  into  one  another.  The 
question  here  has,  of  course,  nothing  to  do 
with  tragi-comedy,  which  is  nothing  more 
than  a  play  consisting  of  tragic  scenes  and 
comic  scenes  alternating.  That  is  a  "  mech- 
anical mixture  "  :  what  concerns  us  here  is 
the  possibility  of  a  "  chemical  compound." 
Can  a  drama  be  both  tragedy  and  comedy  ? 
Is  it  possible  to  treat  a  theme  both  seriously 
and  laughably  ?  On  general  grounds  one 
would  suppose  the  enterprise  highly  difficult 
but  possible.  Horace  Walpole  said  that 
"  Life  is  a  comedy  to  those  who  think,  a 
tragedy  to  those  who  feel "  ;  therefore, 
given  a  playwright  with  a  great  brain  and 
a  great  heart  aiding,  not  thwarting,  one 
another,  such  a  drama  is  possible.  To  find 
a  whole  play  composed  in  this  godlike  mood 


118     THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

would  be  difficult,  but  scenes  or  whole  acts 
written  in  that  vein  are  well-known.  King 
Lear  owes  its  special  and  stupendous  potency 
more  perhaps  to  this  than  to  any  other  single 
cause  ;  and  many  a  great  passage  in  Eurip- 
ides— parts  of  Orestes^  for  example — belongs 
to  this  category.  The  four  great  dramatic 
types,  then,  can  and  do  at  times  approxi- 
mate. But,  as  a  fact,  the  centrifugal  ten- 
dency has  been  far  more  strongly  marked. 
Tragedy  has  grown  more  solemn  and  awful, 
melodrama  more  superficially  wild,  comedy 
more  laughable,  farce  more  vulgar,  than 
in  strict  theory  they  need  have  become. 
Throughout  large  areas  of  dramatic  history 
the  conventions  are  secure  that  tragedy 
must  culminate  in  the  death  of  the  chief 
personage,  that  comedy  must  not  arouse 
thought,  that  melodrama  should  contain  an 
unredeemed  villain,  that  farce  must  exhibit 
horseplay  with  food,  clothing,  or  furniture. 
It  has  often  been  observed  that  good 
melodrama  and  good  farce  are  rare  ;  indeed 
"  superior "  people  make  a  point  of  pre- 
tending that  melodrama  is  actually  funny 
because  so  "  bad " — ^that  is,  because  it 
bears  no  recognizable  relation  to  life.  This 
is  to  attribute  to  the  whole  class  vices  be- 


OF  DRAMA  119 

longing  only  to  feeble  and  stupid  instances 
thereof ;  and  it  is  easy  to  do  so,  because 
good  melodrama  is  rare.  But  it  exists — 
witness  the  Helena  of  Euripides,  Kyd's 
Spanish  Tragedy,  perhaps  even  Othello,  The 
reason  for  this  rarity  is  that  Man  is  a  gen- 
eralizing animal,  so  that  both  melodrama 
and  farce,  if  well  conceived  and  executed, 
might  seem  bound  to  become  tragedy  and 
comedy  by  leading  the  spectator  from  the 
special  experiences  before  him  to  the  facts 
of  his  own  life  and  of  humanity.  This  is 
not  actually  so  ;  it  is  possible  to  compose 
both  sorrowful  and  laughable  drama,  of 
admirable  quality,  which  concerns  only  the 
people  portrayed  and  not  the  whole  race. 
Both  types  are  saved  by  introducing  features 
which  necessarily  and  obviously  pin  down 
the  interest  to  individuals.  Farce  is  in- 
variably distinguished  from  comedy  by  this 
feature,  that  the  persons  act,  think,  and 
speak  lopsidedly — ^they  ignore  what  could 
not  be  ignored  in  reality,  and  fasten  upon 
some  special,  only  minor,  point,  in  the 
various  situations,  for  example  the  muffins 
in  The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest,  Melo- 
drama is  invariably  distinguished  from 
tragedy  by  two  qualities,  theatricality  and 


120   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

violence.  There  is  no  melodrama  which 
does  not  depend  in  considerable  degree  upon 
stage  tradition  :  every  drama  of  this  class 
is  a  more  or  less  imposing  structure  built 
from  the  debris  of  tragic  work.  As  for  the 
other  feature,  all  emotions  are  conveyed  by 
crude  and  exaggerated  physical  action,  on 
the  most  elaborate  scale  allowed  by  coarse 
sentimentalism  and  the  resources  of  the 
theatre.  Hatred  may  no  doubt  be  evinced 
in  tragedy  by  murder,  but  in  melodrama 
the  bloodshed  must  be  wildly  spectacular 
and  complicated.  In  both  types  the  same 
reason  holds  for  these  excesses  ;  it  is  neces- 
sary to  depart  far  enough  from  probability 
to  prevent  the  spectator's  identifying  him- 
self with  the  persons  presented,  yet  not  far 
enough  to  reach  the  unthinkable,  for  there 
interest  would  perish.  Good  melodrama  and 
good  farce,  then,  are  rare  because  both  must 
be  unnatural  yet  interesting. 

So  necessary  is  it  for  us  to  follow  only  the 
main  lines  of  this  immense  subject,  that 
certain  highly  important  considerations 
which  will  occur  to  the  reader  must  be  left 
on  one  side.  There  is,  for  instance,  the 
curious  fact  that  great  comedy  is  rarer  than 
great   tragedy.     Aristophanes    is    a    mighty 


OF  DRAMA  121 

scenic  genius,  but  his  work  often  passes  over 
from  comedy  to  farce.  Shakespeare  has 
given  us  magnificent  comic  scenes,  but  no 
whole  comedy  which  can  be  ranked  with 
his  greatest  half-dozen  tragedies.  Moliere  is 
first-rate,  and  Marivaux  full  of  delight ;  but 
it  would  be  a  mistake  to  put  them  on  a  level 
with  Sophocles,  however  distinctly  they 
surpass  the  tragic  playwrights  of  their  own 
country.  Another  attractive  topic  is  the 
minor  forms  of  drama  :  burlesque,  which  is 
farce  pivoted  upon  parody  ;  opera,  which 
blends  music  with  any  one  of  the  four  main 
types  already  discussed ;  modern  panto- 
mimes and  revues,  which  tend  more  and 
more  to  dispense  with  plot  and  so  inevitably 
to  lose  dramatic  quality  and  revert  to  chaos. 
It  is,  however,  desirable  to  offer  some 
remarks  on  a  kind  of  drama  frequent  in  our 
own  time.  There  are  many  excellent  works 
which  may  be  thought  to  fall  under  none 
of  our  four  categories.  It  may  be  said  that 
they  are  not  laughable,  and  therefore  neither 
comedy  nor  farce  ;  that  they  appeal  strongly 
to  the  instincts,  fears,  or  interests  of  all 
men,  and  are  therefore  not  melodramatic  ; 
that  they  do  not  culminate  in  the  death 
of  the  chief  character,  and  so  are  not  tragic 


122   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

— moreover,  they  lack  the  pomp  and  awe 
which  we  associate  with  tragedy.  Wliat 
then  are  they  ?  It  is  usual  to  term  them 
simply  "  plays  "  or — implying  some  indefin- 
itely tense  quality — "  dramas  "  ;  and  critics 
more  or  less  vaguely  suggest  or  assert  that 
they  constitute  a  new  type  of  dramatic 
work.  We  are  here,  as  often  in  criticism, 
within  sight  of  a  dispute  about  mere  nomen- 
clature, but  it  is  worth  while  to  seek  greater 
precision.  Such  works  as  those  just  men- 
tioned are  tragedies.  They  conform  to  the 
definition  of  tragedy  given  earlier,  and  our 
unreadiness  to  allow  them  that  name  is  due 
to  the  natural,  but  in  this  regard  excessive, 
influence  upon  our  judgment  of  the  greatest 
tragic  achievements.  It  seems  at  first  sight 
absurd  to  place  Mrs,  Warren's  Profession, 
excellent  as  it  is,  in  the  same  class  with 
(Edipus  Coloneus,  Faust,  and  Hamlet,  But 
this  is  not  a  question  of  classes  of  merit ; 
it  is  a  question  of  classes  of  method.  Any 
drama,  indeed,  must  fall  more  or  less 
definitely  into  one  of  our  four  classes,  the 
only  variations  being  blends  thereof.  A 
word  should  be  added  concerning  the  theory 
that  the  hero's  death  is  a  necessary  in- 
gredient of  tragedy.     A  very  large  propor- 


OF  DRAMA  123 

tion  of  the  noblest  tragedies  do,  of  course, 
exhibit  this  feature,  for  reasons  which  are 
too  obvious  to  need  mention.  But  the 
function  of  tragedy  can  always  be  carried 
out  competently,  and  has  sometimes  been 
carried  out  sublimely,  by  a  plot  which  dis- 
penses with  this  device  ;  (Edipus  Tyrannus 
and  Medea  are  examples. 

So  much,  then,  for  the  nature  of  drama. 
What  is  its  aim  ?  Is  there  any  one  purpose 
which  we  can  attribute  to  every  drama, 
every  playwright,  every  school  of  dramatic 
writing,  despite  the  great  divergences  which 
are  to  be  remarked  between  school  and 
school,  dramatist  and  dramatist,  even  be- 
tween different  works  of  the  same  author  ? 
Is  there  nevertheless  any  one  object  in  which 
they  all  agree,  just  as  there  was  one  character- 
istic of  form,  namely,  the  question-and- 
answer  plot,  in  which  we  found  them  all  to 
agree  ?  The  divergences  are  great.  Greek 
tragedy  and  comedy  were  parts  of  religious 
ritual ;  Roman  comedy  is  a  light  comment 
on  contemporary  manners  ;  Roman  tragedy 
(so  far  as  we  know  it)  was  translation  of 
Greek,  or,  if  original,  machine-made  rhet- 
oric ;  mediaeval  plays  are  a  crude  attempt 
to  impress  upon  the  unlearned  the  robust 


124   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

reality  of  Scriptural  stories  or  the  validity 
of  ethical  dogma  ;  modern  dramas,  when 
serious,  deal  with  difficulties  of  conduct  or 
social  anomalies  ;  when  frivolous,  they  play 
superficially  or  deleteriously  with  the  com- 
mon emotions.  Differences  as  great  are 
apparent  between  dramatist  and  dramatist. 
The  chief  aim  of  Shakespeare  is  to  edify 
through  a  study  of  emotion  ;  of  Sophocles, 
to  reconcile  Man  with  his  environment 
through  the  appreciation  of  human  instincts ; 
of  Ibsen,  to  fortify  through  a  new  appeal 
to  ethical  fact.  Can  we  point  to  any 
common  purpose  or  purposes  ?  There  is 
but  one — ^to  entertain,  by  the  portrayal  of 
life.  This  kind  of  entertainment — ^that  is, 
the  refreshment  and  invigoration  of  the 
intellect  and  emotions  by  depicting  a  human 
crisis  and  its  solution — is  common  to  CEdipus 
Tyrannus,  to  Othello,  to  Tartujfe,  to  The 
Importance  of  Being  Earnest,  and  to  the 
most  dull,  derivative,  or  vulgar  piece  ever 
concocted  in  Rome  or  mid-nineteenth-cen- 
tury England.  It  is  said  that  the  object 
of  all  art  is  to  give  pleasure  by  imitation. 
This  dictum,  though  by  no  means  completely 
untrue,  is  misleading  ;  for  no  one  with  a 
sense  of  accuracy  would  give  the  name  of 


OF  DRAMA  125 

"  art  "  to  a  reproduction  of  creaking  cart- 
wheels or  even  of  the  nightingale's  song, 
since  art  must  always  pass  beyond  simple 
mimicry,  through  reticence,  frugality,  and 
the  blending  touch  of  a  human  creator 
bringing  forth  what  is  not  the  familiar 
reproduced  but  the  familiar  transfigured. 
The  aim  of  all  art,  then,  is  to  give  pleasure, 
not  by  mere  imitation,  but  by  reinforced 
reminiscence,  and  the  aim  of  dramatic  art 
is  to  give  pleasure  by  the  reinforced  reminis- 
cence of  the  critical  in  human  life.  True, 
the  playwright  often  has  a  further  purpose, 
some  special  thesis  about  conduct  or  emo- 
tion, as  had  De  Musset  in  On  ne  badine  pas 
avec  V amour,  or  some  quite  definite  social 
doctrine  for  which  he  seeks  converts,  like 
Mr.  Galsworthy  in  Justice,  and  above  all, 
M.  Brieux  in  Les  Avaries  or  Les  Trois  Filles 
de  M.  Dupont.  He  may,  that  is,  be  a  pure 
artist,  presenting  life  as  he  sees  it,  with  no 
plainly  implied  comment  at  all,  or  he  may 
be  a  thoroughly  didactic  propagandist  using 
dramatic  method  merely  as  a  platform,  or 
he  may  be  anything  between  these  extremes. 
The  distance  between  Sophocles  and  M. 
Brieux  provides  room  for  many  grades,  not 
only  of  literary  excellence,  but  of  didacti- 


126   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

cism  also.  And  however  openly  propagand- 
ist a  playwright  may  be,  we  shall  always 
find  that  he  provides  "  entertainment  "^ — ^the 
bracing  and  refreshment  of  mind  and  heart — 
in  however  attenuated  a  degree  :  there  are 
always,  at  the  least,  piquant  contrasts  and 
a  vivacity  of  dialogue  which  no  mere  pam- 
phlet ever  provides.  But  though  such  "  enter- 
tainment "  is  always  present,  it  is  in  some 
modern  work  painfully  meagre  ;  and  herein 
lies  some  foundation  for  that  watchword  of 
the  "  Philistine "  which  so  annoys  lovers 
of  the  drama — "  I  go  to  the  theatre  to  be 
amused."  No  doubt  a  series  of  guffaws 
extended  over  three  hours  is  an  experience 
not  only  unnecessary,  but  intolerable,  to 
any  civilized  being  not  jaded  by  perverse 
and  monotonous  toil ;  and  drama,  like  the 
other  arts,  aims  at  illuminating  people  whose 
minds  are  alert,  whose  taste  is  critical,  not 
to  provide  opportunities  for  emotional  dram- 
drinking.  Nevertheless,  the  "  Philistine  " 
has  his  glance  turned  in  the  right  direction ; 
he  is  justified  in  his  suspicion  of  performances 
which  promise  pleasure  and  betray  him  with 
sermons  or  social  programmes. 

The  rest  of  this  essay  will  deal  with  the 
methods    of    drama — ^the    system    of    com- 


OF  DRAMA  127 

position,  the  specific  devices,  whereby  a 
playwright  seeks  to  effect  the  purpose  we 
have  described ;  namely,  to  refresh  and 
brace  his  hearer's  intellect  and  emotions  by 
portrayal  of  some  puzzle  in  life  and  of  its 
solution.  His  task  must  be  carried  out 
through  his  personages — that  is,  mainly 
by  their  characters,  their  actions,  and  their 
words  :  what  they  do.  He  may  also  employ 
external  happenings  :  what  is  done  to  them. 
It  will  be  convenient  to  examine  this  latter 
element  first. 

By  "  external  happenings "  are  here 
meant  things  of  which  the  characters  must 
take  account,  but  which  arise  without  their 
volition,  events  of  which  we  cannot  say 
that  they  would  naturally  happen  in  the 
situation  supposed,  but  only  that  they  might 
happen  at  some  time  or  other — a  lightning- 
flash  whereby  the  villain  is  removed,  a 
violent  shock  which  by  restoring  speech  or 
memory  makes  of  some  negligible  person 
an  important  w^itness,  and  so  forth  ;  most 
commonly  of  all,  the  use  of  coincidence  to 
bring  about  meetings  or  discoveries. 

Accidents,  and  structurally  important 
accidents,  are  to  be  found  in  the  greatest 
plays.      Prospero's     enemies     are     wrecked 


128   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

upon  the  one  island,  of  all  islands,  where  he 
himself  was  cast  away.^  CEdipus  meets  and 
slays  the  one  man,  of  all  men,  who  is  his 
father.  In  A  DolVs  House  Mrs.  Linden 
and  Krogstad  meet  by  the  merest  chance, 
and  on  their  meeting  the  celebrated  final 
scene  structm^ally  depends.  In  lesser  work, 
especially  in  melodrama  and  farce,  such 
"external  events"  abound;  many  farces, 
indeed,  almost  consist  of  sudden  con- 
frontations, ludicrous  but  irrational.  Acci- 
dent should  be  sparingly  employed  in  serious 
drama,  because  the  author  must  present  a 
recognizable  picture  of  life,  which  depends, 
or  is  thought  to  depend  (here  the  same 
thing),  far  more  upon  character  than  upon 
accident.  It  is  accident  that  Romeo  should 
fail  to  receive  the  Friar's  letter  and  should 
enter  the  Capulets'  vault  before  Juliet 
awakes ;  it  is  his  character  which  causes 
him  to  destroy  himself  before  her  trance 
is  broken.  And  when  such  accidents  are 
employed,    important   distinctions   must  be 

^  The  tempest  itself  is  due  to  Prospero's  art,  but  the 
fact  that  his  enemies  come  within  the  focus  of  his  power 
is  the  result  of  chance  : — 

By  accident  most  strange,  bountiful  Fortune — 
Now  my  dear  lady — hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore. 


OF  DRAMA  129 

observed.  It  is  bad  dramatic  art  to  set  in 
the  midst  of  the  play  a  pure  accident  on 
which  the  subsequent  action  absokitely  de- 
pends. For  the  spectator  reahzes  that  had 
the  accident  not  occurred  the  story  would 
have  collapsed.  It  is  no  help  to  reply  that 
vital  accidents  do  appear  in  real  life  ;  art 
cannot  be  chaotic,  and  pure  accident,  to  the 
human  eye,  is  the  incursion  of  chaos. 

But  we  must  note  the  wording  :    "  to  set 
in  the  midst  of   the  play  a  pure  accident 
on  which  the  subsequent  action  absolutely 
depends."     Two    fundamental    facts    must 
be   indicated   here.     First,   there   is  by   no 
means  the  same  objection  to  such  accident  if 
it  happens  before  the  outset  of  the  drama, 
or   even  at  its  opening.      What  starts  the 
action  may  be  illogical,  casual,  improbable, 
anything   short   of   flat   impossibility.     One 
has  to   begin   somewhere,   and   we   do   not 
object  to  an  accident  so  long  as  the  action 
itself,  once  opened,  is  logical  and  natural. 
One  might  as  well  censure  Raphael's  School 
of  Athens  on  the  ground  that  not  all  the 
philosophers     there     depicted     could    have 
come    together,    not   being   contemporaries. 
"  Supposing   they   had   been,"   the   painter 
could   reply,    "  that    is   how   the   assembly 


130   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

would    have    looked."     Aristotle    therefore 
rightly    says    that    the    irrational    elements 
should  be   outside  the   play   proper.     It   is 
this  consideration  which  justifies  two  of  the 
instances    quoted    above,    those    from    The 
Tempest     and     (Edipus     Tyr  annus.       The 
second  point  rests  on  the  words  "  absolutely 
depends."     It   makes  all  the   difference  in 
the  world  whether  the  accident  is  one  of 
action  or  of  time  only.     In  the  first  case  the 
event  itself  is  casual — that  is,  the  chances  are 
indefinite    thousands    to    one    against    the 
event  itself  happening  at  all ;  and  yet,  if  it 
did  not,  the  subsequent  action  would  vanish. 
An   examination  of   Euripides'  Alcestis  will 
show  that  the  denouement  depends,  not  upon 
Alcestis'    devotion,    or    Admetus'    anguish, 
or  the  valour  of  Heracles,  but  solely  upon 
the    fact    that    the     demigod    happens    to 
become  intoxicated ;  and  unless  we  admit  in 
Alcestis  the  notion  so  regular  in  comedy, 
that  Heracles  drinks  too  deeply  whenever 
he  has  the  opportunity,  we  must  condemn 
Euripides'  method  in  this  drama.     In  most 
plays  it  is  not  the  fact  itself  which  is  casual, 
but  the  time.     The  fact,  or  something  like 
it,   will  certainly  happen   sooner   or   later  : 
the  only  accident  is  that  it  should  happen 


OF  DRAMA  131 

just  then.  On  such  accidents  it  is  not  true 
that  the  subsequent  action  "absolutely 
depends."  Did  not  the  event  fall  precisely 
when  it  does,  we  should  not  lose  the  later 
development,  only  quickness  and  precision 
of  development  ;  the  drama  in  its  outlines 
would  be  unchanged.  This  second  con- 
sideration justifies  the  third  example  given 
above,  from  A  DolVs  House.  It  is  on  the 
one  hand  true  that,  had  not  Mrs.  Linden 
and  Krogstad  met  by  pure  chance  in 
Helmer's  drawing-room,  Krogstad  would 
not  have  spared  Nora  and  her  husband, 
therefore  we  should  not  have  gained  the 
great  final  scene  as  it  stands.  But  the  vital 
point  is  that  that  scene  must  necessarily 
arrive  at  some  time,  given  Helmer's  char- 
acter and  Nora's;  all  that  the  accidental 
meeting  gives  us  is  the  neatness  with  which 
the  last  scene  happens  so  early. 

The  other  instrument,  or  set  of  instru- 
ments, with  which  a  dramatist  performs  his 
task  was,  we  saw,  what  the  persons  them- 
selves do.  This,  in  the  widest  interpreta- 
tion, means  their  characters,  their  actions, 
and  their  words.  Psychology,  action,  and 
dialogue  are  the  three  great  strands  of 
dramatic    composition.     Every    play    must 


132   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

exhibit  them  all,  though  their  relative 
importance  may  vary  :  characterization 
must  be  effected  by  conduct  and  dialogue, 
action  must  reveal  character  and  be  clothed 
with  conversation,  dialogue  must  refer  to 
character  and  the  visible  action  of  the  piece. 
Of  these  the  most  fundamental  and  most 
difficult  is  characterization.  The  question 
of  the  drama  —  the  desis  ("tying")  as 
Aristotle  calls  it,  the  tangle,  problem,  or 
perplexity — should  arise  from  the  psychology 
of  the  persons  involved,  as  well  as  from  the 
situation  in  which  they  find  themselves ; 
this  is  equally,  or  even  more,  true  of  the 
denouement.  The  specific  pleasure  afforded 
by  dramatic  art  is  to  watch  character  creat- 
ing destiny.  It  is  true  that  a  special  situa- 
tion is  also  needed,  since  a  definite  crisis 
must  be  raised  by  a  definite  cause.  Among 
existing  plays  there  are  many  gradations 
based  on  the  relative  importance  of  character 
and  situation.  In  Monsieur  Piegois,  by 
M.  Alfred  Capus,  the  situation  is  merely 
that  Piegois  notices  a  lady  who  is  travelling 
in  the  same  railway  compartment  as  him- 
self. Works  of  heavier  calibre  begin  more 
remarkably,  since  mighty  crises  are  normally 
introduced  by  highly  unusual  events  ;   both 


OF  DRAMA  133 

psychology  and  situation  are  wonderful  in 
such  works  as  Agamemnon  and  Julius  Ccesar, 
Numberless  feeble  but  violent  productions, 
especially  melodramas,  show  slight  charac- 
terization and  a  tremendous  or  elaborate 
situation,  such  as  Andreiev's  Sabine  Women 
and  the  pseudo  -  Shakespearean  Titus 
Andronicus, 

The  means  by  which  a  dramatist  may 
project  a  character  are  six  :  the  things  done 
by  the  person,  the  things  said  by  him,  the 
attitude  of  people  who  have  been  in  close 
touch  with  him,  things  said  of  him  by  others, 
facts  already  known  to  the  spectator,  and 
material  details.  The  last  three  may  be 
used  as  subsidiary,  but  no  one  save  an  inferior 
workman  relies  on  them ;  none  the  less,  so 
arduous  is  it  to  create  character  effectively 
by  the  first  three  means,  that  many  writers 
have  depended  perforce  upon  the  cheaper 
and  coarser  devices. 

Material  details,  such  as  the  furnishing  of 
a  man's  room  or  significant  equipment  of 
his  person,  are  not  really  successful,  save 
by  convention.  To  fill  an  apartment  with 
musical  instruments  and  busts  of  Grieg  or 
Mozart  proclaims  the  occupant  a  musician 
— perhaps — but  that  is  to  tell  us  his  hobby 


134   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

or  trade,  not  his  character.  Dress  a  man  in 
large  checks  and  give  him  diamonds  to 
wear  ;  that  proves  his  vulgarity — perhaps — 
but  vulgarity  is  a  matter  of  tone ;  it  is 
colour,  not  structure ;  and  character  is 
the  structure  of  the  soul,  while  culture  is 
its  colour.  Moreover,  externals  are  as 
untrustworthy  as  obvious.  The  gaudily 
attired  man  may  not  be  viilgar  ;  he  may 
hate  these  trappings  and  wear  them  to 
please  his  wife. 

Another  of  these  cheap  devices  was  "  facts 
already  known  to  the  spectator  " — that  is, 
the  author  evades  his  task  by  introducing 
some  real  person  whose  character  is  already 
known  from  history  or  legend.  Let  the 
curtain  rise  upon  a  short  stout  figure  frown- 
ing into  vacancy,  wearing  a  cocked  hat,  and 
holding  one  hand  thrust  into  his  bosom,  and 
the  thing  is  done.  He  is  Napoleon  the 
Great,  and  every  one  in  the  theatre  knows, 
not  perhaps  (or  probably)  his  character, 
but  those  conventional  characteristics  which 
alone  such  a  writer  intends  to  exploit. 
The  actor  has  but  to  snap  his  fingers 
and,  without  turning  his  head,  exclaim : 
"  Bernadotte,  come  here  !  "  and  the 
"  character  "   is   "  created."      It   is   to    this 


OF  DRAMA  135 

simple  method  that  the  success  of  Mr. 
John  Drinkwater's  Abraham  Lincoln  is 
mainly  due. 

Analogous  to  this  is  the  fourth  expedient, 
"  things  said  of  him  by  others  " — by  far  the\^ 
greatest  favourite  of  all.  Just  as  second-  \ 
rate  dramatists  open  with  elaborate  un- 
natural explanations  of  the  plot  uttered  by 
servants  laying  a  dinner-table,  so  is  character 
conveyed  by  a  symposium  of  minor  persons 
who  have  nothing  better  to  do  than  diagnose 
their  friend's  or  their  master's  private  blend 
of  irritability  and  a  generous  heart.  When 
the  person  so  described  appears,  he  is  not 
further  characterized  by  more  artistic  means 
if  the  author  is  really  second-rate  ;  the  fluid 
phantasma  runs  easily  into  the  mould  thus 
prepared.  There  is  no  strong  objection  to 
such  preparation  if  the  person  described 
makes  it  good  by  vigorous  psychology 
authentically  displayed.  Euripides'  Medea 
has  the  familiar  explanatory  domestics,  but 
the  heroine  herself  is  vibrantly  alive,  most 
cogently  real.  The  bad  method  may  be 
watched  almost  any  day,  and  Shakespeare 
himself  supplies  a  capital  example  in 
Julius  Ccesar.  The  dictator  is  a  mere 
simulacrum  to  which  an   external   glow  of 


136   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

life  is   imparted  only  by   the  comments   of 
others, 

Why,  man,  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow  world 
Like  a  Colossus, 

and  the  rest. 

Between  this  method  and  the  third,  "  the 
attitude  of  persons  who  have  been  in  close 
touch  with  him,"  there  may  seem  little 
difference  or  none.  What  is  exactly  meant, 
however,  is  not  their  verbal  attitude  towards 
him  only,  but  their  outlook  on  things,  their 
own  minor  psychology,  shown  by  their 
reaction  to  his  influence.  If  w^e  compare 
Julius  Ccesar  with  Ibsen's  Master  Builder, 
we  see  at  once  how  much  more  powerfully 
and  intimately  the  Norwegian  has  created 
his  main  character  by  means  of  Solness' 
wife  and  employees,  than  the  Englishman 
has  succeeded  in  projecting  a  real  figure 
even  by  the  eloquence  of  Cassius  or  of  An- 
tony. Shakespeare  does,  however,  at  other 
times  wield  this  instrument  superbly ;  witness 
the  perfectly  dramatic  and  illuminating 
manner  in  which  Enobarbus  reacts  to  Cleo- 
patra, Cassio  and  Emilia  to  lago.  Indeed, 
though  this  device  is  a  favourite  of  Ibsen's, 
who  uses  it  again  and  again  with  miraculous 
power   (as   in    The  Wild   Duck   and   Hedda 


OF  DRAMA  137 

Gabler),  the  example  from  Othello  is  perhaps 
the  strongest  and  most  arresting  proof  of  its 
possibihties.  lago  himself  is  a  puzzle  :  his 
character  of  unredeemed  evil  is  a  psycho- 
logical problem  that  has  baffled  the  greatest. 
What  we  realize  of  him  is  learnt  from  the 
attitude  of  others ;  we  cannot  look  him  in  the 
face,  but  must  scan  his  lineaments,  as  did 
Perseus  those  of  the  Gorgon,  in  a  mirror. 

There  remain  the  first  two  means  of 
characterization — the  things  done,  the  words 
said,  by  the  person  himself.  These  two  are 
different  but  inseparable ;  together  they 
constitute  the  most  difficult,  most  interesting, 
most  valuable,  and  (next  to  plot  itself)  most 
necessary  task  of  the  dramatist.  In  the 
first  place,  it  is  clear  that  the  playwright 
must  imagine  his  character  definitely  and 
then  present  him  performing  appropriate 
deeds,  uttering  appropriate  words.  So  far, 
the  work  is  not  specially  difficult.  Most 
people  can  imagine  a  brave,  patriotic,  military 
officer  who  should  (owing  to  "  machina- 
tions ")  fall  under  a  cloud  and  be  publicly 
degraded.  They  can  also  cause  him  at  the 
critical  moment  to  strike  an  attitude  and 
cry  :  "  You  may  take  away  my  sword,  but 
you  cannot  take  away  my  Victoria  Cross  !  " 


138   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

If  this  is  all  that  one  needs,  why  is  One  of 
the  Best  less  admirable  than  Henry  the  Fifth  ? 
We  need  much  more.  So  far  we  have  only 
cut  out  a  figure  in  the  fiat,  and  this  is 
not  creation  at  all.  The  genuine  dramatic 
master  makes  characters  in  three  dimensions ; 
we  can  walk  all  round  them,  envisage  them 
from  unobvious  angles,  feel  that  we  know 
them,  not  merely  see  them.  They  stand  on 
their  own  feet,  detached  from  the  back- 
ground which  happens  to  be  placed  behind 
them  at  the  moment,  ready  to  walk  into 
other  environments,  encountering  fresh  com- 
panions and  new  enterprises.  That  is  the 
one  test  of  a  great  character  study ;  we 
instinctively  imagine  them  in  surroundings 
not  depicted  by  the  author — "  Micawber 
would  have  done  so-and-so !  "  "  What 
would  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne  have  said  ?  " 
A  celebrated  example  relates  to  the  best- 
drawn  figure  in  all  literature  :  The  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor  was  written  because  of 
Elizabeth's  curiosity  to  see  Falstaff  in  love. 
But  how  is  this  done  ?  By  what  devices 
does  an  author  make  his  people  "  come 
alive "  ?  Here,  of  course,  we  approach  a 
region  where  there  seems  to  be  no  footing — 
the  attempt  to  explain  how  genius  brings 


OF  DRAMA  139 

itself  to  bear.  It  is,  nevertheless,  worth 
while  to  make  the  attempt,  though  an 
adequate  account  is  naturally  out  of  the 
question.  Sometimes  a  character  grows  on 
the  author's  hands  without  his  conscious 
volition.  He  imagines  a  person  of  minor 
calibre,  restricted  importance  ;  then  it  hap- 
pens that  the  man  or  woman  so  imagined 
appeals  to  the  writer's  own  temperament — 
"  grows  on  him  " — and  becomes  too  great 
for  his  environment.  So  it  was,  we  know, 
that  Samuel  Pickwick  developed ;  so,  in 
all  likelihood,  Shylock  grew  from  a  sordid 
scoundrel  to  the  colossal  representative  of  a 
whole  nation,  an  immemorial  history  clothed 
in  a  single  yellow  gaberdine.  But  normally, 
no  doubt,  such  vivid  creations  are  evolved 
with  full  consciousness.  How  ?  The  dra- 
matist ponders  his  proposed  character  not 
at  first  in  the  environment  which  is  to  be 
his  upon  the  stage.  He  lives  in  his  company, 
sits  down  to  meat  with  him,  walks  in  his 
society  through  street,  market,  and  meadow  ; 
watches  his  love-making  and  quarrels,  reads 
the  same  book  over  his  shoulder  ;  discusses 
with  him  religion,  war,  politics,  commerce  ; 
shares  his  jests  and  reads  the  meditation 
of  his  heart.     All  this  is  at  first  only  the 


140   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

terrific  travail  and  joy  of  creation,  but  little 
by  little  the  strain  of  conscious  toil  becomes 
the  delighted  watching  of  a  creature  which 
hourly  takes  to  itself  as  by  miracle  a  seem- 
ingly independent  life,  though  never,  as  in 
our  earlier  instances,  too  great  for  its  sur- 
roundings. Hans  Andersen,  when  he  wrote 
the  fantasy  of  the  man  who  lost  his  shadow, 
was  composing  an  allegory  of  all  great 
fiction.  Then,  when  the  imagined  man  or 
woman  is  complete,  then,  and  not  till  then, 
is  the  name  Falstaff  or  Portia  given,  and  the 
Eastcheap  tavern  roars  with  vital  gusto 
shed  abroad  by  a  being  more  human  than 
any  man  in  the  theatre,  the  terraces  of 
Belmont  are  flooded  with  the  sunny  radiance 
of  one  who  sums  up  in  her  sweet  presence 
the  charm  and  strength  of  many  women. 
Of  the  hundred  conversations  which  Shake- 
speare held  with  Cleopatra,  of  all  those 
valiant  affrays  wherein  he  charged  stirrup 
by  stirrup  with  Talbot  or  Hotspur,  of  those 
many  conferences  in  camp  and  court  with 
Roman  triumvirs,  Plantagenet  kings,  and 
Tudor  nobles,  but  little  has  escaped  on  to 
paper.  The  poet  knew  Falstaff  in  his  slender 
youth.  Lady  Macbeth  as  a  girl  at  her  sampler 
and  her  prayers,  Mark  Antony  in   doublet 


OF  DRAMA  141 

and  trunk-hose  taking  boat  for  Hampton 
Court,  Prospero  as  a  neighbour  gossiping 
of  crops  and  herds  by  a  Stratford  fireside, 
Rosahnd  nursing  her  babies  or  seeking  her 
lost  husband  upon  some  nameless  battlefield. 
It  is  because  the  life  which  these  superb  men 
and  women  passed  in  his  peerless  imagination 
was  vaster  far  than  the  few  events  which 
unroll  themselves  before  our  eyes  in  the 
Arden  Forest,  on  the  banks  of  old  Nile, 
or  along  the  corridors  of  Dunsinane,  that 
when  we  meet  them  in  these  surroundings 
we  salute  them  as  more  real  than  ourselves. 
All  this  might  be  put  crudely  by  a  mere 
reminder  that  such  persons  make  other 
remarks,  and  do  other  things,  than  are  in 
strictness  called  for  by  their  situation ; 
there  is  a  largior  cether  about  their  talk  and 
conduct.  One  main  reason  for  the  impres- 
sion of  triviality  left  by  many  plays  is  that 
the  persons  keep  closely  and  unsuggestively 
to  the  matter  in  hand.  Whenever  Harpagon 
appears  we  know  that  he  will  talk  about 
money.  But,  on  the  other  side,  we  shall 
not  make  a  character  vivid  by  the  mere 
bestowal  of  irrelevant  conversation  ;  it  will 
not  do  to  hang  upon  his  part  sundry  tags 
of  extraneous  chat  "  to  give  atmosphere." 


142  THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 
His  author  must  conceive  him  from  the 
centre  outwards.  The  actual  written  evi- 
dence of  such  complete  imagination  as  we 
have  tried  to  expound  will  of  course  vary 
from  character  to  character.  Among  Shake- 
speare's greatest  figures  Macbeth  perhaps 
shows  this  evidence  least.  Needless  to  say, 
he  is  none  the  less  magnificent  for  that ; 
but  his  darkly  terrific  speeches  are  based 
on  a  comparatively  narrow  expressed  reminis- 
cence of  the  thousand  daily  concerns  and 
activities  shared  by  average  men.  Hamlet 
certainly  shows  such  evidence  most,  going 
beyond  the  network  of  microscopic  allusion 
which  we  have  most  in  mind  to  definite, 
sometimes  elaborate,  disquisition,  as  in  his 
memories  of  Yorick  and  (still  more)  in  his 
interview  with  the  strolling  players. 

The  mention  of  Hamlet  tempts  us  into 
a  digression.  One  of  our  most  brilliant  and 
esteemed  dramatic  critics,  Mr.  A.  B.  Walkley, 
in  an  essay  ^  entitled  "  Professor  Bradley's 
Hamlet,'^  has  set  forth  a  view  diametrically 
opposite  to  that  suggested  in  the  two  pre- 
ceding paragraphs.  We  may  well  draw 
encouragement  to  embrace  our  own  theory 
from  the  extraordinary  vagaries  into  which 

^  Drama  and  Life,  pp.  148-55. 


OF  DRAMA  143 

Mr.  Walkley  is  plunged  by  fidelity  to  his 
own.  For  example,  he  asserts  that  such 
comments  as  "  Doubtless  in  happier  days  he 
[Hamlet]  was  a  close  and  constant  observer 
of  men  and  manners  "  show  Professor  Brad- 
ley "  unconsciously  wandering  into  specula- 
tions about  Hamlet  as  a  real  person,  existing 
off  the  stage,  and  independently  of  Shake- 
speare's play."  And  whither  is  the  critic 
led  by  his  hostility  to  this  method  ?  To 
nothing  less  than  this :  that  Shakespeare 
did  not  care  whether  his  characters  were 
credible  or  not,  that  he  is  just  as  pleased 
to  fling  a  heap  of  odds  and  ends  on  to  the 
stage  with  the  remark,  "  These  are  Hamlet," 
as  to  create  a  credible  being !  It  may 
appear  impossible  that  any  man  who  has 
read  the  poet  for  ten  minutes  should  offer 
such  statements,  but  here  are  Mr.  Walkley's 
words  :  "  Shakespeare  himself  had  these  char- 
acteristics, and  sought  expression  for  them 
on  the  stage  without  a  perpetual  solicitude 
for  consistency  or  intelligibility  in  his  mouth- 
piece. A  father  is  addressing  his  son  starting 
on  a  journey.  Shakespeare  sees  the  '  good 
things '  appropriate  to  that  situation  in 
general,  and  at  once  puts  them  in  the  mouth 
of  Polonius,  though  it  suits  him  afterwards 


144   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

to  make  Polonius  a  '  tedious  old  fool.'  «  .  . 
The  theme  of  the  moment  was  '  A  Father's 
Advice  to  his  Son  '  or  '  The  Art  of  Acting ' 
or  '  Meditations  on  Suicide,'  and  all  the 
dramatic  resources  of  that  theme  were  duly 
*  exploited  '  on  the  spot."  In  a  passage  like 
this  we  may  watch  the  art  of  dramatic 
criticism  committing  suicide. 

Returning  now  to  the  main  theme  of 
which  characterization  is  one  department, — 
"  that  which  the  persons  do  themselves," — 
we  have  to  treat  of  their  work  in  carrying 
out  the  plot.  The  reader  may  object  that 
characters  are  only  created  and  revealed 
precisely  by  such  motion  and  execution. 
Certainly ;  but  for  clearness'  sake  it  is 
necessary  to  sunder  in  discussion  things 
actually  combined,  just  as  the  anatomist 
studies  a  single  organ  which  does  not,  how- 
ever, function  by  itself.  We  proceed  then 
to  action,  the  things  done  and  said  by  our 
characters.  By  their  influence  upon  one 
another,  their  mutual  reactions,  they  give 
body  to  the  plot.  Plot  is  the  "  soul  of  the 
play,"  as  Aristotle  put  it,  action  is  its  flesh, 
the  characters  are  its  organs.  Dramatic 
manner  consists  in  the  confrontation  of 
people   whose   purposes,    interests,    powers. 


OF  DRAMA  145 

have  a  clear  relationship  of  cause  and  effect, 
of  tendency  and  obstacle,  of  aim  and  op- 
posing aim.  It  is  this  condition  of  intense 
contrast  between  persons  standing  in  one 
another's  presence  which  is  most  usually 
J  implied  by  the  word  "  dramatic."  ^  In  the 
two  highest  types  of  drama,  tragedy  and 
comedy,  this  confrontation  is  of  a  special 
and  most  momentous  kind — ^the  collision 
of  personalities  which  are  the  vehicle  of 
opposing  ideas,  whereas  in  the  other  types 
the  collision  is  between  people  who  stand 
for  nothing  more  than  their  own  concerns. 
The  author  of  tragedy  or  of  comedy,  owing 
allegiance  both  to  the  abstract  governing 
idea  and  to  the  particular  human  being  who 
is  its  vehicle,  must  be  true  to  both.  But 
how  ?  If  the  person  is  to  express  the  idea 
adequately,  what  room  is  there  for  the 
individual  marks  needed  to  make  him 
"  real  "  ?     If,  on  the  other  side,  he  is  to  be 

1  Mr.  William  Archer,  in  his  chapter  "Dramatic  and 
Undramatic "  {Play making,  pp.  23-41),  repudiates  the 
doctrine  that  drama  is  the  presentment  of  struggle,  and 
suggests  (p.  29)  that  "  the  essence  of  drama  is  crisis." 
These  statements,  as  general  statements,  are  excellent. 
It  will  be  seen  that  the  present  writer  insists  on  "  collision  " 
only  in  the  highest  types  of  drama,  and  later  in  this  essay 
the  importance  of  crisis  is  developed  at  length.  But  a 
general  condition  of  contrast  between  the  persons  is  always 
an  ingredient  in  dramatic  method. 


146  THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 
a  convincingly  human  creature,  will  not  the 
universality  of  the  idea  evaporate  ?  Here 
is  the  deepest  problem  of  great  drama ; 
and  it  is  perhaps  the  most  splendid  artistic 
triumph  of  the  human  spirit  that  it  has 
achieved  a  number  of  amazingly  good 
solutions,  ^schylus  is  the  supreme  in- 
stance of  a  mind  filled  with  the  profoundest 
abstract  truths  yet  expressing  them  within 
the  limits  of  particular  time,  place,  and 
personality ;  his  theological  concept  of 
imperfect  godhead  rising  to  omniscience, 
omnipotence,  universal  benevolence,  is 
magnificently  conveyed  through  Orestes, 
Prometheus,  and  others  without  spoiling 
the  individual  clearness  of  the  persons.  His 
people  are,  to  be  sure,  drawn  with  simple, 
sweeping  lines  ;  there  is  none  of  that  fine 
brush  work  which  a  modern  master  of  any- 
thing like  ^schylus'  calibre  would  give, 
and  which  Euripides — even  Sophocles,  in 
some  degree — ^has  given.  But  he  has  en- 
dowed them  with  as  much  personal  colour 
as  was  possible  without  blurring  the  eternal 
facts  whose  messengers  and  offspring  they 
are.  He  has  held  the  scales  marvellously 
level,  for  his  profound  sense  of  God  and  his 
vivid  sense  of  Man  were  equally  powerful. 


OF  DRAMA  147 

Without  that  balance  we  might  have  found 
in  his  pages  a  jejune  presentation  of  abstrac- 
tions hke  the  featureless  Virtues  and  Vices  of 
a  morality-play.  Something  like  this,  indeed, 
happened  when  Shelley  imitated  his  Prome- 
theus :  the  English  poet  gives  us  no  characters, 
only  qualities  endowed  with  vocal  chords. 

No  other  dramatist  has  kept  universal  and 
particular  so  evenly  matched.  Ibsen,  per- 
haps, comes  nearest  to  ^schylus  in  this 
respect.  Hedda  Gabler  is  artistically  the 
modern  Prometheus.  Yet  even  she  is  more 
"  interesting,"  as  we  call  it — ^that  is,  we  are 
more  concerned  with  her  individual  sur- 
roundings than  with  those  of  Prometheus. 
Goethe's  Faust,  again,  gives  often  more 
weight  to  the  ideal  than  to  the  particular. 
The  earlier  scenes  are  gloriously  ^schylean, 
but  as  the  drama  progresses  the  universal 
more  and  more  clearly  overrides  the  specific 
and  individual,  until  at  the  close  we  hear  the 
"chorus  mysticus"  singing  pure  Platonism  : — 

Alles  Vergangliche 
1st  nur  ein  Gleichniss  ; 
Das  Unzulangliche 
Hier  wird's  Ereigniss  ; 
Das  Unbeschreibliche 
Hier  ist  es  gethan  ; 
Das  Ewig-weibliche 
Zieht  uns  hinan. 


148   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

This  is  magnificent,  but  it  is  not  drama. 
It  is  too  deep,  too  ultimate  ;  and  a  play- 
wright's business  is  not  to  expound  the 
ultimate  directly  (even  supposing  he  can)," 
but  to  translate  it  into  terms  of  credibly 
particular  men,  women,  and  human  action. 
All  other  modern  dramatists,  except  Shake- 
speare in  his  greatest  work,  will  be  found 
stressing  either  the  super -human  (or  in- 
deed infra-human)  idea  or  the  particular 
example  in  hand.  The  latter  method  has 
in  modern  times  been  far  more  common  and 
successful.  In  this  region  Euripides  alone 
of  Greek  dramatists  can  be  compared  with 
Shakespeare  and  Ibsen ;  no  figure  drawn 
by  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  or  Aristophanes, 
can  rival  in  vividness  his  Phsedra,  his  Medea, 
his  Orestes. 

The  struggle  between  the  idea  conveyed 
and  the  character  -  vehicle  has  not  only 
tended  to  depress  one  or  the  other :  it  has 
influenced  character-drawing  itself,  especi- 
ally in  comedy.  Hence  arises  the  drama 
of  types  instead  of  strongly  individualized 
persons,  the  most  notable  kind  being  the 
comedy  of  manners.  Moliere  is  its  greatest 
exponent ;  his  lovers,  rogues,  simpletons, 
are  little  more  than  the  greatest  common 


OF  DRAMA  149 

measure  of  all  the  members  of  each  class. 
Such  a  method  strikes  one  on  a  ^priori 
grounds  as  unpromising,  and  in  fact  Moliere's 
vast  charm  and  power  are  found  far  less  in 
psychology  than  in  dialogue.  Ben  Jonson 
belongs  to  the  same  school ;  his  reputation 
(such  as  it  is,  for  he  is  but  magni  nominis 
umbra)  depends  not  on  characterization  but 
on  a  brisk  jumble  of  action.  His  Bartholo- 
mew Fair  provides  perhaps  the  best  speci- 
men in  dramatic  literature  of  that  famous 
desideratum,  the  "  slice  of  life."  But  the 
"  humours "  which  he  so  industriously 
exhibits  give  little  entertainment ;  when 
they  are  unsupported  by  other  attractions 
the  result  is  dreariness  unspeakable  :  Every 
Man  out  of  his  Humour  is  possibly  the 
most  unreadable  work  ever  penned.  Con- 
greve,  like  Moliere,  is  saved  from  such 
an  abyss  by  brilliant  dialogue.  Tragedy, 
as  we  said,  has  suffered  less  than  comedy 
from  this  attempt  to  achieve  universality  by 
cutting  away  peculiarities — a  sure  way  to 
produce  what  is  less,  not  more,  human  than 
our  next-door  neighbour.  But  it  may  be  ob- 
served even  at  the  highest  levels  ;  Sophocles 
shows  at  times,  especially  in  Antigone,  a 
hardness  of  surface  which  is  due  to  this  cause. 


150   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

Our  personages,  then,  whether  they  convey 
such  fundamental  ideas  as  a  new  conception 
of  Providence  or  whether  they  are  merely 
endeavouring  to  anticipate  one  another  in 
the  search  for  stolen  bonds,  meet  before 
our  eyes  in  personal  impact.  Between  the 
main  characters  or  groups  of  characters 
there  is  collision,  not  necessarily  hostile 
collision,  but  a  confrontation  of  unlike  aims, 
opinions,  or  instincts.  Between  Macbeth 
and  his  wife,  between  Alceste  and  Celimene 
in  Le  Misanthrope,  between  Tanner  and  Ann 
Whitefield  in  Man  and  Superman,  between 
Blunt schli  and  Raina  in  Arms  and  the  Man, 
there  is  no  hostility,  but  such  an  impact 
of  dissimilar  temperaments  that  by  the 
resulting  heat  the  plot  is  moulded.  It  is, 
of  course,  even  more  obvious  that  consciously 
hostile  collision  provides  the  very  core  of 
countless  plays  :  it  is  enough  to  quote,  for 
conscious  hostility  on  both  sides,  Prometheus 
Vinctus,  Antigone,  Coriolanus,  The  Merchant 
of  Venice ;  and,  for  consciousness  on  one 
side  only,  the  Choephoroe,  Medea,  Othello. 
While  the  chief  persons  thus  come  into 
marked  collision,  there  is  frequently  between 
two  minor  characters  some  kind  of  clash, 
however  minute.     It  varies  from  the  fatal 


OF  DRAMA  151 

duel  of  Tybalt  and  Mercutio,  through  the 
contrast  between  Kent  and  the  Fool  during 
their  attendance  upon  Lear,  to  the  jars 
between  Sebastian  and  Gonzalo  in  The 
Tempest,  or  the  distinctions  in  rascality  ex- 
hibited by  Pistol  and  Nym.  Even  lords-in- 
waiting  and  nameless  bystanders  are  divided 
by  plain  variations  of  sympathy  or  opinion. 
It  will  be  remembered  that  our  present 
topic  is  action,  not  plot ;  we  are  not  yet 
concerned  with  the  development  of  the 
question-and-answer  construction,  but  only 
with  the  commerce  between  the  persons 
from  moment  to  moment.  Under  this  head 
one  topic  remains — intensity.  The  action 
must  be  neat  and  crisp ;  things  should 
happen  with  what  may  be  described  as  a 
click.  The  mere  entry  of  some  one  with  a 
seeming-casual  remark  may  in  the  circum- 
stances have  the  effect  of  an  explosion. 
At  the  end  of  the  Third  Act  of  Hervieu's 
La  Course  du  Flambeau  occurs  this  minute 


"  scene  " 


Mme.  Fontenais  {revenant  de  sa  chambre)  : 
Eh  bien  ?  .  .  .  Ou  en  es-tu,  entre  ta  mere 
et  ta  fille  ?     Suis-je  du  voyage  ? 

Sabine  {repondant  d^un  signe  de  tete  plutot 
que  de  la  voix)  :   Oui. 


152   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

In  another  place  this  would  be  nothing. 
Set  where  it  is,  it  is  intensely  dramatic. 
Not  only  does  it  doom  the  mother  to  death  ; 
it  is  the  core  of  the  plot  and  voices  the  moral 
of  the  whole  piece.  Few  plays  equal  La 
Course  du  Flambeau  in  this  special  quality, 
but  all  playwrights  more  or  less  clearly 
realize  the  need.  So  strongly,  in  fact,  do 
writers  of  our  time  feel  the  importance  of  - 
crisp  action  that  they  have  evolved  what  is 
called  the  "  curtain" — ^that  is,  the  device  of 
closing  an  act  or  scene  at  the  highest  possible 
point  of  tension.  An  excellent  example  has 
just  been  given  from  Hervieu  ;  but  many 
others  may  be  found  with  ease.  So  in 
Mrs,  Gorringe^s  Necklace,  by  Mr.  H.  H. 
Davies,  the  First  Act  ends  just  after  we  have 
discovered  that  David  Cairn  is  the  thief 
and  exactly  at  the  moment  when  his  fiancee 
innocently  induces  him  to  agree,  with  a 
breaking  heart,  that  everything  shall  be 
"  like  the  old  times."  But  a  morbid  passion 
for  the  "  strong  curtain "  has  led  some 
writers  of  farce  and  melodrama  to  strange 
lengths.  They  bring  it  about  not  artisti- 
cally but  mechanically,  as  a  rule  by  the 
sudden  reappearance  of  some  interesting 
person  whom  the  audience  has  half-forgotten 


OF  DRAMA  153 

and  who  is  now  unexpectedly  and  irration- 
ally thrust  forward  into  a  scene  already 
tense.  Are  you  a  Mason?  contains  a  crude 
instance  of  this.  Much  less  objectionable, 
but  similar,  is  the  laughable  moment  in 
M.  Rostand's  Chantecler  when  at  the  end  of 
the  long  and  tumultuous  reception  held  by 
the  Guinea-Hen,  the  curtain  descends  just 
as  the  usher  announces  "  The  Tortoise  !  " 
Like  this,  but  entirely,  indeed  splendidly,  jus- 
tified is  the  craftsmanship  whereby  Augier, 
in  his  La  Pierre  de  Touche,  after  mention- 
ing a  character  several  times,  but  never 
presenting  him,  at  length  causes  him  to  be 
announced,  and  ends  the  whole  play  with 
the  words  "  Faites  entrer."  It  is  a  masterly 
stroke,  because  though  this  lieutenant's 
future  influence  upon  the  hero's  fortunes 
is  important  and  necessary  to  complete  the 
plot,  we  need  nothing  more  than  this  crisp 
reminder  of  the  form  which  that  influence 
is  certain  to  take. 

One  delightful  and  frequent  method  of 
securing  the  "  click  "  is  to  employ  "  business  " 
with  material  objects  or  exciting  features 
of  real  life.  This  method,  again,  is  often 
childishly  dragged  into  the  lower  dramatic 
types,    as    in    the    racecourse    scenes    and 


154   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

criminal  trials  of  melodrama.  But  there 
are  a  thousand  examples  of  its  admirable 
employment — the  meeting  of  employers 
and  strikers  in  Mr.  Galsworthy's  Strife,  the 
mannequin  scene  in  The  Madras  House  of 
Mr.  Barker,  the  rehearsal  in  Meilhac-Halevy's 
Froufrou ;  and  the  brilliant  use  of  material 
objects  may  be  observed  in  countless  plays, 
from  the  purple  carpets  in  the  Agamemnon 
and  the  bow  of  Philoctetes  to  Portia's 
caskets,  Desdemona's  handkerchief,  and  the 
floating  crutch  of  the  drowned  Eyolf . 

Two  portions  of  "  that  which  the  persons 
do  themselves  "  have  now  been  indicated — 
characterization  and  action.  The  third,  dia- 
logue or  speech,  remains.  In  few  respects 
do  dramatic  authors  differ  more  widely. 
Sometimes  it  is  not  genuine  dialogue  at  all, 
but  a  succession  of  tirades  ;  others  employ 
nothing  but  short  sentences,  ostensibly  the 
exact  replica  of  everyday  talk  ;  and  various 
stages  between  these  extremes  are  to  be 
noted.  Nor  is  length  the  only  standard 
of  difference.  Poetic  form  or  poetic  diction 
or  both  are  employed  by  some ;  others 
write  prose  ;  a  third  class  write  neither — 
for  M.  Jourdain  was  absurdly  wrong — but 
keep    to    the    formless    speech    of    ordinary 


OF  DRAMA  155 

folk ;  a  fourth  kind,  finally,  compose  a 
queer  stilted  jargon  which  can  best  be 
described  as  sanctified  journalese.  Each 
length-difference  can  of  course  be  combined 
with  any  of  the  style-differences.  Thus,  to 
take  but  a  few  examples,  we  find  in  Sophocles 
poetic  form,  poetic  diction,  and  long  speeches; 
poetic  form,  poetic  diction,  and  short 
speeches  in  Rostand  ;  prosaic  form,  poetic 
diction,  and  short  speeches  in  Maeterlinck  ; 
prosaic  form,  prosaic  diction,  and  long 
speeches  in  Shaw. 

Ignoring  details,  we  find  that  the  great 
difference  lies  in  the  choice  between  poetical 
and  prose  form.  The  tendency  to  poetry  has 
been  caused  in  great  degree  by  the  influence 
of  other  literature ;  in  Greece,  for  example, 
by  the  prestige  of  epic  and  by  the  lyrics 
which  formed  an  integral  part  of  Greek 
drama.  Another  cause  is  the  desire  to 
distinguish  emphatically  the  language  of  an 
art-form  from  that  of  every  day.  The  use 
of  prose,  and  of  short  sentences,  is  due  to  the 
search  for  verisimilitude,  but  this  has  been 
modified  by  the  influence  just  mentioned  in 
connexion  with  poetry — ^the  desire  for  artistic 
diction  ;  the  finest  result  in  our  time  of  these 
two  tendencies  is  the  work  of  J.  M.  Synge. 


156   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

Each  form  has  its  pecuhar  danger.  In 
poetic  drama  it  is  irrelevance,  the  play- 
wright being  constantly  tempted  to  develop 
a  theme  altogether  beyond  what  its  dra- 
matic value  demands,  for  the  sake  of  its 
own  poetical  possibilities.^  Undoubtedly 
a  beautiful  long  speech  may  be  thoroughly 
dramatic  :  every  lovely  phrase  or  pungent 
stroke  of  rhetoric  may  serve  the  plot  or  aid 
characterization.  Antony's  funeral  oration 
is  a  superb  proof  of  this.  Prospero's  nar- 
rative to  Miranda  at  the  opening  of  The 
Tempest  and  (far  more)  the  soliloquies  of 
Macbeth  are  all  dramatic  timber  as  well  as 
poetry  excellent  or  sublime  in  itself.  But 
the  Queen  Mab  speech  of  Mercutio  and  the 
equally  exquisite  description  of  the  bees' 
conmionwealth  in  Henry  the  Fifth  are  on 
an  altogether  different  plane ;  they  are 
intruded  into  the  action,  which  they  only 
delay  and  serve  not  at  all.  Mercutio's 
speech,  it  may  be  objected,  illustrates  his 
character.     But    it    is    illustrated    enough 


*  Mr.  C.  E.  Montague  {Dramatic  Values,  p.  227)  roundly 
says  of  the  Recits  de  Theramene :  "  They  are  magnificent, 
but  not  drama."  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  original  "  nar- 
rative of  Theramenes,"  in  Racine's  Phedre  (V.  vi.),  is 
perfectly  dramatic  (and  exactly  in  the  tradition  of  the 
Messengers'  Speeches  in  Greek  tragedy). 


OF  DRAMA  157 

otherwise  ;  the  purpose  is  answered  at  least 
equally  well  by  such  things  as  :  "  'Tis  not  so 
deep  as  a  well,  nor  so  wide  as  a  church- 
door  ;  but  'tis  enough  .  .  .  ask  for  me  to- 
morrow, and  you  shall  find  me  a  grave  man." 
It  is,  indeed,  plain  that  Romeo  and  Juliet 
as  a  whole  provides  a  gloriously  beautiful 
specimen  of  transition-form ;  it  is  lyric 
passing  into  drama,  much  as  Peele's  Old 
Wives^  Tale  is  narrative  passing  into  drama. 
No  one  doubts  that  such  disquisitions  are 
brought  in  only  to  gratify  the  sense  of 
literary  beauty,  and  with  no  thought  of  the 
plot/  It  is  of  no  avail  to  point  out  that 
poets  who  compose  for  theatres  with  a 
platform,  so  to  call  it — ^the  Greek  theatre, 
if  the  actors  played  in  the  orchestra,  and  the 
Elizabethan  theatre  with  its  "  apron  " — 
naturally  find  themselves  writing  elaborate 
recitations  which  the  performer  declaims 
to  his  audience  like  an  orator  on  the  tribune. 
This  (even  if  true)  does  nothing  more  than 
account  for  the  poet's  own  standard  of  length 
in    speeches  :     it    has   no   bearing    on   their 

1  There  is  no  recantation  here  of  what  was  said  con- 
cerning Mr.  A.  B.  Walkley's  remarks  on  Hamlet.  We  only- 
remark  that  such  passages  do  not  help  the  drama  as  drama  ; 
Mr.  Walkley  beheves  without  misgiving  that  they  may 
stultify  it. 


158   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

relevance.  All  we  can  say  is  that  the 
conditions  render  the  temptation  to  irrele- 
vance greater  for  Euripides  and  Shakespeare 
than  for  Ibsen,  Hauptmann,  and  Hervieu. 
Rhetoric,  moralizing,  preaching  may  be 
perfectly  dramatic,  however  long.  We  ob- 
jected just  now  on  technical  grounds  to 
Mercutio's  Queen  Mab  ''  effort."  But  take 
another  passage  from  the  same  play.  Friar 
Laurence  muses  upon  his  simples  : — 

The  grey-ey'd  morn  smiles  on  the  frowning  night. 
Checkering  the  eastern  clouds  with  streaks  of  light, 

and  so  forth  for  thirty  lines  in  all.  It  is 
a  memorable  speech,  but  apparently  quite 
static.  Then  what,  we  ask,  has  this  quiet 
musing  to  do  with  the  fortunes  of  the  young 
lovers  ?  Is  it  any  more  to  the  purpose  than 
the  fantasia  of  Mercutio  ?  It  is,  in  fact, 
vastly  more  dramatic.  First,  it  plainly 
conveys  an  allegory  of  Romeo's  waywardness 
and  of  the  wasteful  enmity  between  Mon- 
tagues and  Capulets.  Secondly,  it  is  in 
tune  with  the  situation.  The  Friar  is  alone, 
at  complete  leisure,  an  aged  man  taking  the 
morning  air  outside  his  cell.  Moralizing 
for  its  own  sake  is  here  far  more  natural 
than  that  a  young  gallant,  amid  companions 
agog  for  a  frolic,  should  detain  them  with 


OF  DRAMA  159 

highly-wrought  Jioriture,  however  exquisite, 
on  the  topic  of  dreams,  while  they  postpone 
their  business  to  listen  attentively  in  a  semi- 
circle, as  no  party  of  young  men  ever  did 
since  the  world  began. 

The  main  danger  of  prose-dialogue  is  more 
insidious.  We  saw  that  prose  is  employed 
in  order  to  give  verisimilitude,  but  that 
the  artist's  instinct  recoils  from  complete 
likeness  ;  art  makes  a  picture,  not  a  photo- 
graph. Thus  the  prose-dramatist  is  threat- 
ened on  the  one  side  by  commonness,  on 
the  other  by  unreality.  He  must  somehow 
portray,  at  times,  the  banal  or  stupid  without 
losing  all  dignity  and  vivacity  ;  but  if  he 
writes  so  that  every  one  exclaims  "  How 
unnatural !  "  he  has  failed.  The  whole 
topic  of  "  truth  to  life "  cannot  well  be 
treated  here,  though  it  plainly  affects 
dialogue  no  less  than  character,  action,  and 
plot.  Still  it  may  be  said  that  it  is  in- 
finitely better  to  imitate  real  talk  exactly 
than  to  recoil  from  it  into  the  jargon  which 
now  reads  so  incredibly  in  the  English 
drama  of  seventy  years  ago.  In  the  second 
act  of  Mr.  Shaw's  Major  Barbara  occur 
passages  which  render  with  complete  real- 
ism the  conversation  and   conduct   of   the 


160   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

slums  ;  in  Pygmalion  he  brought  upon  the 
stage  a  word  hitherto  supposed  securely 
unprintable.  Objection  has  been  taken  to 
such  fidelity.  But  compare  it  with  the  other 
extreme,  quoted  ^  by  Mr.  Walkley  from  a 
play  highly  popular  in  its  time  (1841), 
Boucicault's  London  Assurance  : 

I  love  to  watch  the  first  tear  that  glistens 
in  the  opening  eye  of  morning,  the  silent 
song  that  flowers  breathe,  the  thrilling 
choir  of  the  woodland  minstrels,  to  which 
the  modest  brook  trickles  applause;  these, 
swelling  out  the  sweetest  chord  of  sweet 
creation's  matins,  seem  to  pour  some  soft  and 
merry  tale  into  the  daylight's  ear,  as  if  the 
waking  world  had  dreamed  a  happy  thing, 
and  now  smiled  o'er  the  telling  of  it. 

The  rule  for  prose-dialogue  is  plain.  It 
must  be  like  enough  to  actual  speech  for 
us  to  imagine  ourselves  joining  in  it  to- 
morrow morning,  but  more  forceful,  neater, 
richer,  and — ^unless  characterization  demands 
this — ^unencumbered  by  the  half-articulated 
scraps  of  phrase  which  spread  fungus-like 
over  the  conversation  of  most  people.  This 
rule,  like  so  many  others,  is  of  small  use 
without  experience,  and  a  commencing  play- 
wright who  has  been  alarmed  by  Boucicault 

^  Drama  and  Life,  pp.  14  et  seq. 


OF  DRAMA  161 

and  his  peers  will  produce  by  reaction 
dialogue  which  is  bald  and  stringy.  Seek- 
ing a  remedy  for  this,  he  will  take  to 
crude  cleverness  :  people  who  are  not  witty 
ex  hypothesi  will  nevertheless  talk  wittily ; 
others  will  unconsciously  reveal  their  failings 
by  a  neat  maladroitness  for  which  we  sigh 
vainly  in  the  real  world  ;  others  will  inter- 
rupt one  another  and  create  a  joke  by 
accidental  collaboration.  Such  devices  in 
moderation  are  well  enough,  but  they  do  not 
by  themselves  constitute  excellent  dialogue. 
Wit  is,  indeed,  the  regular  stopping-place  of 
good  second-rate  dramatists  ;  only  the  master 
goes  beyond  it.  The  manner  of  Oscar  Wilde 
is  here  most  instructive.  His  dialogue  falls 
into  two  sharply  sundered  divisions  :  the 
serious,  when  it  is  pretentious,  hysterical,  or 
dull ;  and  the  witty,  when  it  is  mostly 
irrelevant,  though  blazing  with  unmatchable 
epigrams.  It  is  never  what  it  should  be, 
thoroughly  good  normal  conversation.  A 
lady  suddenly  remarks,  "  Define  women  for 
me."  Pat  comes  the  response  :  ^^  Sphinxes 
without  secrets."  Such  things  are  very 
delightful,  but  they  should  be  published  in 
the  form  of  La  Rochefoucauld's  Maximes 
et  Reflexions  Morales ;   they  do   not   justify 


162   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

the  substructure  of  Adams  drawing-rooms, 
French  windows,  secret  cheque-books,  and 
the  Hke.  In  this  sphere  the  unchallenged 
master  is  Ibsen.  His  conversations  are 
always  vibrant,  whatever  the  topic,  but 
never  florid  and  never  bald — ^unless,  as  we 
said,  the  character-study  definitely  requires 
such  qualities.  Every  word  is  interesting, 
but  he  is  never  merely  witty  ;  as  some  are 
too  happy  to  need  amusement,  so  is  he  too 
brilliant  to  need  wit.  His  conversations 
glow  continuously  instead  of  flashing  and 
crackling  at  intervals.  All  this  is  apart 
from  their  greatest  virtue,  that  of  assisting 
the  plot  with  an  effortless  mastery  which  is 
perhaps  Ibsen's  most  splendid  merit. 

The  three  divisions  of  our  subject  have 
now  been  in  some  measure  described  :  the 
nature,  the  aim,  and  the  methods  of  drama. 
But  it  is  imperative  that  we  should  examine 
more  closely  the  nature  of  plot,  the  Formal 
Cause  (as  Aristotle  might  have  said)  of  the 
action — ^the  shape  which  makes  it  what  it  is. 
How  must  action  be  modelled  or  kneaded  if 
it  is  to  be  dramatic  ?  The  main  rule,  we 
saw,  was  that  it  should  first  definitely  pose 
a  question,  some  riddle  to  be  solved,  or 
some  tangle  to  be  unravelled,   and  that  it 


OF  DRAMA  163 

should  as  definitely  offer  the  reply,  the 
solution,  the  unravelling — what  in  French 
is  called  the  denouement,  or  "  untying."  We 
must  now  go  further.  The  next  considera- 
tion is  economy — to  draw  from  every  datum 
in  the  situation,  every  character,  every 
scene,  every  speech,  the  utmost  assistance 
for  the  purpose  of  the  whole,  and  to  employ 
the  minimum  number  of  factors.  This  is 
by  no  means  the  same  thing  as  simplicity. 
An  admirably  economical  play  will  often 
be  found  complex  in  its  delicate  adjustment 
and  reaction  of  parts,  e.g.  CEdipus  Tyrannus 
and  Hedda  Gabler ;  whereas  many  plays 
of  rudimentary  structure  contain  a  lavish 
apparatus  of  minor  persons  or  scenic 
changes,  e.g,  Peter  Pan,  Chantecler,  and 
Peer  Gynt.  Let  us  now  indicate  some  im- 
portant results  of  the  instinct  for  economy. 

First,  the  solution  should  be  given  entirely 
in  terms  of  the  original  question.  We  said 
above  that  it  must  "  come  out "  of  the 
question,  in  order  to  include  even  the 
worst  dramas,  where  the  main  characters 
settle  their  difficulty,  or  (more  often)  find 
it  settled  for  them,  by  the  aid  of  novel 
factors  violently  intruded  at,  or  later  than, 
the  middle  of  the  play.     Instead  of  working 


164   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

out  a  problem  based  (let  us  say)  on  their 
poverty,  by  using  their  own  abilities,  their 
own  surroundings,  and  the  experience  or 
opportunities  which  their  poverty  itself  can 
and  must  supply,  they  observe  near  the 
close  of  the  last  act  but  one  a  quaint  white- 
headed  figure  approach  their  house,  scanning 
the  numbers.  In  a  few  minutes  they  learn 
that  it  is  their  Uncle  Peter  from  New  South 
Wales,  whose  existence  has  been  hitherto 
concealed  both  from  them  and  from  the 
audience  ;  he  has  amassed  a  gigantic  fortune 
from  sheep-farming,  he  has  not  married, 
and  has  come  home  to  die.  Despite  the 
concern  with  which  they  listen  to  his  hack- 
ing cough,  they  cannot  but  see  that  their 
financial  troubles  are  nearing  the  end.  Such 
a  solution  "  comes  out  "  of  the  situation 
as  originally  set ;  the  people,  the  local 
conditions,  and  the  rest,  are  mostly  un- 
changed. But  there  is  no  necessary  tie 
between  end  and  beginning  ;  the  structure 
is  wi'ctchedly  bad.  Uncle  Peter  is  in  fact 
the  ancient  deus  ex  machina,  heavily  secular- 
ized for  the  delectation  of  an  age  which  has 
rejected  religious  myth  but  still  cherishes 
myths  of  finance.  The  "  god  from  the 
machine  "  is  a  thoroughly  bad  device,  simply 


OF  DRAMA  165 

because  he  cuts  the  knot  instead  of  untying 
it.  The  knot  is  there  to  be  untied  ;  it  is 
skill  in  doing  so  which  is  a  leading  proof  of 
good  craftsmanship,  and  which  affords  the 
spectator  his  strongest  thrill  of  interest. 
Analogous  powers  or  events  elsewhere  in 
the  drama  are  not  necessarily  bad.  Thus 
the  whole  action  of  Hamlet  is  launched  by 
a  supernatural  visitation.  The  Prince  could 
not  learn  the  facts  in  any  other  way;  and, 
granted  a  public  which  effectually  believes  in 
ghosts,  such  an  opening  is  perfectly  sound. 
It  is  far  otherwise  when  the  action  of  A 
Winter^ s  Tale  is  turned  upside  down  by  the 
intrusion  of  an  unusually  clear  and  complete 
response  from  the  Delphic  Oracle.  But 
the  magical  elements  in  The  Tempest  and 
A  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream  are  quite  un- 
objectionable ;  superhuman  powers  are  con- 
stantly and  from  the  first  postulated  for 
Prosper o  and  Oberon.  Objection  lies  against 
the  sudden  introduction  of  miraculous  short- 
cuts into  purely  human  situations.  What 
should  we  say  if  Puck  strayed  into  The 
Merchant  of  Venice  and  converted  "  The 
Duke,  Magnificoes,  and  train  "  to  Judaism  ? 
In  brief,  the  ideal  plot  provides  an  answer 
which  in  its  entirety  is  latent  in  the  problem. 


166   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

The  persons,  acting  upon  one  another  by 
their  psychology,  by  discoveries  about  one 
another's  aims  or  opinions  made  through 
sudden  confrontation,  by  the  persuasions 
and  enhghtenments  of  dialogue,  manipulate 
the  difficulty  which  enmeshes  them  all  in 
their  several  degrees,  until  it  exhibits  a 
new  design  made  from  its  original  elements. 
Sympathy  is  born,  resignation,  comfort, 
understanding.  "  Latent  in  the  problem," 
we  said.  The  materials  for  a  solution  should 
all  be  present,  but  it  is  plainly  wrong  to 
leave  things  so  obvious  that  any  spectator 
can  prophesy  the  end.  The  entertainment 
provided  by  good  drama  is  a  curious  blend 
of  the  sense  of  probability  and  the  sense 
of  surprise.  Probability  must  never  harden 
into  inevitability,  nor  surprise  into  disbelief. 
The  action  swings  over  upon  itself,  the  end 
keeps  tryst  with  the  beginning — "  The  wheel 
is  come  full  circle,  I  am  here."  This  close 
interweaving  of  fabric  is  a  leading  difference 
between  drama  and  other  literary  forms. 

A  second  feature  of  economy  is  to  be 
observed  in  the  management  of  character. 
First,  each  person's  psychology  must  sub- 
serve the  plot.  Those  qualities  in  Lear 
which  the  First  Act  reveals — his  love  for 


OF  DRAIVIA  167 

his  daughters,  his  imperiousness,  whimsical- 
ity, and  childish  temper,  form  not  only  a 
marvellous  study  in  themselves,  but  a  power 
influencing  the  action  at  every  turn.  Mac- 
beth's  valour  is  shown  by  the  sergeant's 
story  ;  his  superstition  by  the  disturbance 
awakened  in  him  by  the  witches'  greeting  ; 
his  ambition  by  the  deep  effect  on  his  mind 
which  their  promise  exercises.  None  of 
these  qualities  would  have  availed  without 
the  others  to  bring  about  his  crimes  ;  Dun- 
can's murder,  the  usurpation,  Banquo's 
death,  the  butchery  in  Fife,  all  are  caused 
by  this  trinity,  valour,  superstition,  ambi-  \^ 
tion.  That  Othello  is  unused  to  polite 
Venetian  society  seems  at  first  a  thing  of 
no  moment ;  we  may  even  ask  ourselves 
why  Shakespeare  has  gone  out  of  his  way 
to  substitute  a  negro  for  the  apparently 
obvious  Italian  condottiero.  But  here  lies 
what  one  is  tempted  to  call  the  most  mas- 
terly device  that  even  Shakespeare  ever 
conceived.  This  ignorance  of  Othello's 
proves  to  be  the  one  means  whereby  lago's 
devilish  cunning  can  persuade  him  that 
Desdemona  is  unfaithful.  Had  Judge  Brack 
shown  himself  in  the  least  degree  less  self- 
complacent    in    his    dealings    with    Hedda 


168   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

Gabler,  probably  she  would  not  have  killed 
herself  after  all ;  his  sleek  security  is  the 
finishing  touch.  Euripides'  Hippolytus  on 
his  first  appearance  delivers  an  exquisitely 
beautiful  address  to  his  patroness-deity 
Artemis.  So  lovely  is  it  that  we  perhaps 
do  not  observe  the  evidence  it  affords  of  an 
excessive  relish  for  subtle  emotion :  the 
evidence  has  to  be  underlined  by  his  brief 
colloquy  with  the  aged  serving-man.  But  it 
is  this  relish  which  later  betrays  Hippolytus 
into  a  refined  gloating  over  Phaedra's  distress 
and  persuades  the  over-tried  woman  to 
destroy  him.  A  second  economy  in  the 
management  of  character  is  to  lay  upon 
each  person  more  than  one  function.  The 
chief  figures  are  naturally  so  employed; 
but  the  able  playwright  will  be  found  pro- 
viding a  double  duty  for  minor  characters 
too  :  they  support  and  are  supported  like 
the  stones  of  an  arch.  This  admirable 
contrivance  aids  in  a  high  degree  the  desired 
tautness,  the  sense  of  grip.  Bassanio  serves 
to  bring  Shylock  and  Antonio  into  collision 
by  his  necessities  ;  then  through  his  marriage 
with  Portia  he  occasions  Antonio's  rescue. 
In  Henry  the  Fourth  Prince  Hal  forms  the 
link  between  Falstaff' s  group  and  the  public 


OF  DRAMA  169 

issues  treated  by  the  play.  Louka  in  Mr. 
Shaw's  Arms  and  the  Man  performs  the 
quite  separate  functions  of  a  foil  to  Raina 
in  Saranoff's  eyes,  and  of  a  means  to  bring 
Raina  and  Bluntschli  together.  If  we  turn 
to  ancient  drama  we  find  that  this  method 
lies  at  the  very  root  of  Terence's  magnificent 
dramaturgy :  he  loves  to  pose  a  double 
question  and  solve  the  two  parts  by  their 
very  interdependence.  Euripides'  Hecuba 
contains  a  most  curious  example :  an  aged 
slave,  who  is  sent  to  fetch  water  for 
Polyxena's  burial-rites,  discovers  Polydorus' 
corpse  while  so  busied,  and  thus  actually 
makes  the  only  bond  between  the  two 
portions  of  the  tragedy.  A  far  more  skilful 
instance  is  lo  in  the  Prometheus  of  ^Eschylus. 
She  draws  from  the  hero  some  of  his  most 
interesting  speeches  ;  she  exemplifies  in  her 
own  person  once  more  the  cruelty  of  Zeus, 
whom  Prometheus  is  defying ;  and  she 
points  forward  to  his  rescuer  Heracles,  her 
own  descendant.  It  is  naturally  not  often 
that  the  absence  of  such  double  functioning 
is  noticed  as  a  distinct  flaw  ;  but  in  the 
Francillon  of  Dumas  fils  it  is  plainly  a 
serious  weakness  that  the  heroine's  supposed 
lover  proves  to  be  a  man  who  has  no  other 


170   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

real  concern  with   the   plot ;    he   ought  to 
have  been  one  of  the  family-friends  to  whom 
we  are  introduced  at  the  outset.     It  need 
scarcely  be  said  that  many  minor  characters 
perform    one    duty    only    without    aesthetic 
offence,  and  have  important  relations  with 
not  more  than  one  person — ^the  physicians 
and  clowns,  the  lords  and  citizens,  Audrey, 
Tubal,  Charmian,  and  a  hundred  more,  the 
"  feeders,"  confidants,  and  purveyors  of  in- 
formation.    Even  in  far  simpler  casts  than 
Shakespeare's   they    are    to    be    found — ^the 
watchman   in   Antigone   and   the   numerous 
heralds  from  iEschylus'  Supplices  downwards. 
Euripides'   tendency   is   to   take   over    such    ! 
characters  and  mortise  them  into  the  plot  :    i 
a  comparison  of  Pylades  in  the  Choej^horoe   \ 
of  iEschylus  with  Pylades  in  the  Euripidean    | 
Orestes  is  most  instructive.  ;j 

The  third  great  use  of  economy  is  in  j 
dialogue.  Here  as  elsewhere  an  important  i 
distinction  holds  between  romantic  and  t 
classic  drama.  In  the  ideal  classic  play  ij 
there  would  not  be  a  single  word  which  (] 
gave  no  help  to  the  development  of  the  [i 
plot ;  in  the  ideal  romantic  play,  dialogue 
would  be  often  expanded,  not  perhaps  for 
the  sake  merely  of  a  "  purple  patch  "  (the 


OF  DRAMA  171 

question  which  we  discussed  above),  but 
to  impress  upon  us  more  vividly  the  mo- 
mentary situation  {e.g.  the  poverty  of 
Romeo's  Mantuan  apothecary),  and  so  less 
directly  than  in  the  classical  type  to  further 
the  action.  So  much  is  true  in  theory,  but 
there  is  no  ideal  instance  of  either  form. 
Sophocles,  on  the  whole  the  most  "  classical  " 
of  all  playwrights,  does  develop  speeches, 
if  not  conversations,  for  the  sake  of  "  roman- 
tic "  momentary  vividness,  as  CEdipus  shows 
in  the  Coloneus  and  Teucer  in  Ajax,  since 
(to  be  pedantic)  the  defence  of  (Edipus  and 
the  praises  of  Ajax  could  have  been  put 
effectively  in  fewer  words.  On  the  other 
side,  many  passages  in  which  Shakespeare 
might  seem  to  delay  the  plot  for  the  sake 
of  "  getting  in  "  a  structurally  useless  speech 
will  be  found  to  perform  a  genuinely  dramatic 
function.  Juliet's  Nurse  insists  on  relating 
a  brisk  anecdote  of  her  late  husband.  What 
connexion  can  it  claim  with  the  plot  ? 
This  :  the  remarkable  fact  needs  explana- 
tion, that  the  Nurse  makes  no  difficulty 
whatever  in  aiding  her  extremely  young 
mistress  to  carry  on  a  love  affair  and  contract 
a  marriage  without  the  knowledge  of  her 
parents.     To  understand  this  we  must  see 


172   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

her  as  what  she  is,  a  nerveless  invertebrate 
mass  of  hypertrophied  sentiment.  Nothing 
could  show  this  better  than  the  talk  assigned 
to  her,  whereas  a  third-rate  poet  would  have 
left  her  uncharacterized,  settling  all  scruples 
about  responsibility  with  the  words  "  Here's 
gold  for  thee  !  "  The  two  methods  in  dia- 
logue do,  then,  often  merge  into  one  another  ; 
but  the  difference  in  tendency  is  unmis- 
takable. Ibsen  is  in  this  department  even 
more  "  classical,"  in  his  realist  dramas,  than 
Sophocles.  If  we  take  a  sentence  at  random 
from  An  Enemy  of  the  People,  our  finger 
lights  upon  Stockmann's  question  to  the 
Burgomaster  :  "  Can  you  suggest  any  other 
plan  ?  "  These  words  extract  from  the 
Burgomaster  an  expression  of  opinion  about 
Stockmann's  report  on  the  town  water- 
supply,  and  so  directly  bring  Stockmann 
into  collision  with  the  community.  So  it  is 
everywhere  in  this  dramatist's  most  signifi- 
cant work.  Herein  lies  one  reason  for  the 
quality  of  his  influence.  His  dialogue  is 
close-grained  and  absorbing,  hardly  ever  airy, 
degage.  Even  at  its  sprightliest  it  conveys 
a  sense  of  creeping  moment ousness.  Hence 
Ibsen  is  not  "  popular  "  :  he  is  too  solid, 
too  concentrated  for  a  genuine  vogue  with 


OF  DRAMA  173 

the  multitude.  But  his  thoughts  are  so 
profound  and  permanently  applicable,  his 
I  technical  skill  so  stupendous,  that  his  influ- 
ence steadily  filters  down  through  dramatists, 
social  theorists,  students  of  literary  art, 
experts  in  the  theatre,  to  the  innumerable 
average  people  who  would  not  think  of 
actually  going  to  witness  an  Ibsen  perform- 
ance. Thus  he  has  in  England  collaborated 
unseen  not  only  with  Mr.  Shaw,  Mr.  Barker, 
and  others  of  the  new  school,  but  also  with 
playwrights  who  ostentatiously  ignore  him, 
such  as  Sir  Arthur  Pinero  and  Mr.  H.  A.  Jones. 

Returning  to  the  main  thread  of  this 
essay,  we  remind  ourselves  that  two  essential 
features  of  plot  have  now  been  discussed  : 
the  existence  of  an  answered  question,  and 
the  observance  of  economy.  We  now  ap- 
proach the  third  vital  characteristic,  the 
most  important  and  attractive  topic  in  the 
whole  study  of  dramatic  technique. 

That  topic  has  been  partly  anticipated 
by  the  statement  that  the  solution  should 
grow  out  of  the  problem.  But  there  we 
were  considering  the  nature  of  a  good  solu- 
tion. We  are  now  to  discuss  the  principles 
of  growth,  the  manner  in  which  the  relation- 
ship between  answer  and  problem  is  made 


174    THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

out ;  in  short,  how  a  plot  is  "  worked." 
The  first  rule  here  is  that  laid  down  by- 
Aristotle  :  that  a  drama  must  have  a 
beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end.  This 
looks  absurdly  obvious ;  but  when  the 
philosopher  explains  that  by  "  beginning  " 
is  meant  something  naturally  followed  by 
something  else,  but  not  necessarily  preceded 
by  anything,  that  by  "  middle  "  is  meant 
something  which  implies  precedent  and  pos- 
terior events,  and  that  an  "  end  "  is  some- 
thing naturally  preceded,  but  not  necessarily- 
followed,  by  something  else,  we  find  at  once 
in  these  dry  phrases  a  useful  standard  of 
common  sense  in  structure,  and  an  explana- 
tion of  the  vague  irritation  caused  in  us  by- 
many  so-called  plays.  Shaw's  Getting  Mar- 
ried has  no  middle  and  no  end.  Schnitzler's 
Anatol  and  Barrie's  Mary  Rose  have  no 
beginning,  middle,  or  end ;  they  start,  go 
on,  and  leave  off.  Much  has  been  already- 
said  of  the  first  and  last  stages  ;  we  are  now 
concerned  mostly  with  "  the  middle." 

Between  the  problem  and  the  solution 
there  must  intervene  a  phase  of  the  action 
which  provides  the  material  for  the  solution. 
From  the  whole  of  our  preceding  discussion, 
which  showed  colhsion,  intensity,  crispness, 


OF  DRAMA  175 

as  qualities  of  drama,  we  should  expect  that 
our  second  stage,  the  portion  which  reveals 
the  way  to  denouement,  would  provide  the 
required  illumination  not  tamely  or  obviously, 
but  through  some  kind  of  shock.  Moreover, 
it  is  precisely  here  that  the  tautness  and 
excitement  reach  their  height ;  here  is  found 
the  play's  culmination.  This  phase  of  the 
action  is  named  "  crisis,"  "  catastrophe," 
or    (by   Aristotle)   "  peripeteia."     All   these 

\  words  mean  more  or  less  definitely  the  same 
thing.  "  Crisis "  means  literally  "  the  act 
of  judging,"  and  in  Greek  medical  science 
was  applied  to  the  point  at  which  a  disease 

I  took  a  turn  for  better  or  worse — "  the  critical 
moment."  "Catastrophe"  means  "over- 
throw." "  Peripeteia "  is  "  falling  over," 
"reversal,"  "recoil."  All  these  etymolo- 
gies indicate  a  fact  which  may  be  gathered 
inductively  from  innumerable  plays ;  namely, 
that  the  peripeteia  is  not  any  and  every 
increase  of  tension.  The  sudden  return  of 
Romeo  and  his  slaying  of  Tybalt  is  not  a 
peripeteia,  nor  is  Macbeth's  assassination 
of  Duncan,  nor  Henry  the  Fifth's  harangue 
on  St.  Crispin's  Day,  nor  the  scene  where 
Faust  watches  the  infernal  hound  "growing 
like  an  elephant "  behind  the  stove  in  his 


176   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

study,  nor  Alceste's  declamation  of  Si  le 
roi  m' avail  donne  in  Le  Misanthrope,  nor  the 
realization  by  Ramsden,  in  Man  and  Supper- 
man,  that  Tanner  is  his  fellow-guardian, 
nor  the  first  interview  between  Sabine  and 
Stangy  in  La  Course  du  Flambeau,  All 
these,  and  hundreds  more,  are  masterly, 
some  of  them  sublime  ;  their  vigour,  truth, 
and  tenseness  are  beyond  praise.  But  none 
of  them  is  a  peripeteia.  The  peripeteia 
is  not  only  a  culmination  of  some  scene  or 
situation  :  it  is  the  culmination  of  the  whole 
drama,  providing  (as  we  said)  information  or 
enlightenment  necessary  to  the  denouement, 
and  must  show  something  more  than  vigour, 
truth,  and  intensity,  though  all  these  are 
demanded.  That  further  quality  is  indi- 
cated by  its  names  :  there  must  be  a  "  recoil," 
a  sudden  blow  which  alters  the  relations 
between  person  and  person,  between  the 
various  aspects  of  the  situation.  Let  it 
be  said  at  once  that  (although  we  may  find 
bad  catastrophes  as  easily  as  bad  psychology 
or  bad  dialogue — "Uncle  Peter,"  in  fact) 
nothing  here  contradicts  what  has  been  said 
earlier  about  the  use  of  accident  or  about 
organic  connexion.  The  suddenness  required 
is  nothing  more  than  an  immense  accelera- 


OF  DRAMA  177 

tion  of  normal  development.  The  persons 
of  the  play  have  long  been  manipulating 
their  difficulty  until,  like  the  glasses  of  a 
kaleidoscope,  it  falls  over  into  a  new  pattern. 
Peripeteia  is  a  readjustment,  a  complete 
change  in  the  situation.  As  a  general  rule 
tragedy  exhibits  a  peripeteia  with  three 
qualities  :  it  is  sudden,  it  is  startling,  it  is 
illuminating.  As  a  general  rule,  again,  the 
peripeteia  of  comedy  is  simpler  :  one  or 
two  of  these  three  qualities  may  be  absent. 
Furthermore,  some  tragedies,  like  uEschylus' 
Prometheus,  contain  peripeteias  analogous 
to  those  of  comedy,  and  some  comedies, 
such  as  Aristophanes'  Frogs,  at  this  point 
resemble  tragedy.  Perhaps  the  most  ex- 
hilarating pursuit  provided  by  literary  criti- 
cism, and  certainly  the  most  indispensable 
part  of  dramatic  criticism,  is  to  examine 
each  play  that  one  reads  or  witnesses, 
asking,  "  Where  precisely  does  the  peri- 
peteia occur  ?  "  and  then  to  proceed  with 
study  of  the  whole  structure.  For  it  will 
occasionally  be  found  that  we  have  not 
after  all  clearly  conceived  "  the  question  of 
the  play,"  whether  because  we  are  misled 
by  our  own  illogical  interest  in  some  minor 
point,  or  because  the  story  is  based  upon 


% 


178        THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 
real  events  familiar  to  us,  and  has  yet  been 
so  remodelled  that  the  leading  interest  of 
the  drama  differs  somehow  from  the  leading 
interest  of  the  actual  events. 

In  Sophocles'  CEdipus  Tyrannus  the  three 
great  stages,  Complication,  Peripeteia,  Solu- 
tion, are  unmistakable.  The  Complication 
is  the  necessity  to  find  and  expel  from  Thebes 
the  man  who  slew  Laius,  since  the  pestilence 
will  not  cease  before  this  is  done.  CEdipus, 
as  king,  takes  measures  to  find  the  unknown 
murderer,  until  towards  the  end  his  ruthless 
questioning  of  the  Herdsman  reveals  that  the 
offender  is  himself,  and  that  therefore  he  is 
not  only  the  slayer  looked  for,  but  guilty 
of  parricide  and  incest.  That  is  the  Catas- 
trophe. Finally  the  Denouement  exhibits 
the  Solution :  the  suicide  of  his  mother 
Jocasta  and  his  own  self -blinding  —  acts 
which  in  some  sort  expiate  his  involuntary 
offences — and  his  determination  to  depart 
into  exile.  Macbeth  is  full  of  exciting  and 
wonderful  scenes,  but  the  peripeteia  is 
clearly  the  disillusionment  of  Macbeth  when 
his  magical  defences  fail.  Here  the  "  recoil " 
is  double,  or  rather  continued — Birnam  Wood 
comes  to  Dunsinane,  and  later  he  is  con- 
fronted   by    an    adversary    not    "  born    of 


OF  DRAMA  179 

But  the  suddenness  is  there ; 
the  catastrophe  begins  in  a  flash,  marked 
(if  we  need  a  mark)  by  the  King's  sudden 
outcry,  "  Liar  and  slave  !  "  The  difference 
is  simply  that  the  catastrophe  itself  lasts 
longer  in  Macbeth  than  in  (Edipus.  The 
reversal  is  equally  plain  in  Shaw's  Major 
Barbara  :  it  is  where  Barbara  Undershaft 
finds  that  the  authorities  of  the  Salvation 
Army  are  content  to  accept  contributions 
from  a  distiller  whose  trade  is  one  of  the 
most  powerful  influences  which  they  have 
to  combat.  This  realization  brings  her  world 
crashing  about  her  ears  ;  she  at  first  feels 
that  there  is  nothing  left  to  live  for.  But 
this  is  only  the  peripeteia  ;  as  usual  it  is 
to  provide  a  solution.  Not  only  does  this 
overthrow  or  recoil  give  the  logical  victory 
to  her  father's  opposing  point  of  view : 
far  more  than  that,  as  soon  as  she  grows 
calm  she  discovers  that  her  real  life-work, 
which  she  had  supposed  inextricable  from 
her  allegiance  to  the  Salvation  Army — ^the 
work,  that  is,  of  organizing  social  sanity 
and  happiness — is  not  in  fact  dependent 
upon  that  allegiance,  but  can  survive  it ; 
she  goes  on  to  perform  the  same  task  amid 
new  surroundings.     In  A  DolVs  House  the 


180   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

catastrophe  occurs  with  the  brief  sentence 
of  Torvald  Hehner  :  "I  don't  want  any 
melodramatic  airs."  All  the  rest  of  that 
famous  scene  is  the  denouement,  the  working 
out  of  the  solution  which  springs  from  the 
illumination  brought  to  Nora  by  her  hus- 
band's words.  A  beautiful  catastrophe  is 
found  in  Wilde's  Lady  Windermere's  Fan. 
The  play  culminates  in  the  brief  passage 
where  Mrs.  Erlynne  steps  from  behind  the 
curtain,  quietly  claims  the  fan,  and  dis- 
appears. This  leads  to  a  brilliant  denoue- 
ment wherein  Lord  Windermere  and  his 
wife  have  each  relinquished  their  divergent 
views  about  Mrs.  Erlynne  and  accepted 
one  another's,  and  that  because  of  the  same 
fact.^  Still  more  unmistakably,  if  possible, 
the  peripeteia  of  Mrs.  Dane's  Defence  occurs 
where  the  heroine  confesses  her  identity 
with  Felicia  Hindemarsh  ;  the  whole  play 
was  written  for  the  sake  of  its  peripeteia. 
So  probably  was  the  Venice  Preserved  of 
Thomas  Otway,  a  tragedy  amazingly  over- 
rated ;  the  only  compensation  for  the  fal- 
setto blank   verse,  the   emotional  hysteria, 


^  How  much  credit  Wilde  himself  deserves  for  this  first- 
rate  piece  of  construction  is  doubtful.  See  Mr.  C.  E. 
Montague,  Dramatic  Values,  pp.  i8o  at  seq. 


I 


OF  DRAMA  181 

and  the  babyish  poUtics,  is  the  discovery  by 
Jaffier  of  Renault's  design  upon  Belvidera, 
which  discovery  impels  him  finally  to  reveal 
the  revolutionary  plot  and  so  produces  a 
somewhat  striking  denouement  based  upon 
Jaffier's  agonized  vacillation  between  love 
for  Belvidera  and  love  for  Pierre. 

Julius  Ccesar  is  of  the  deepest  interest 
in  this  connexion,  as  in  so  many  others. 
Apparently,  most  readers  assume  that  the 
catastrophe  is  the  assassination  of  the  dic- 
tator ;  but  there  are  several  objections  to 
this  view.  First,  does  not  the  war  between 
Brutus  and  Cassius,  Antony  and  Octavius, 
become  a  curiously  long  and  otiose  adden- 
dum ?  Secondly  (if  we  may  begin  to  quote 
our  own  rules),  where  is  the  surprise  which 
we  noted  as  one  of  the  three  qualities  shown 
by  the  tragic  peripeteia  ?  The  murder  of 
Julius  has  been  clearly  foreshadowed  through- 
out the  earlier  scenes,  and  corresponds  thus 
to  the  murder  of  Duncan.  Moreover — 
though  it  must  be  confessed  that  this  is  an 
argument  of  doubtful  relevance — ^this  assas- 
sination was  fatally  familiar  to  Elizabethan 
audiences,  as  familiar  as  the  result  of 
Waterloo  to  a  modern  English  audience. 
Fourthly,  if  this  event  is  the  culmination  of 


182   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

the  tragedy,  why  has  the  poet  characterized 
Caesar  so  feebly  ?  This  weakness  has  often 
been  remarked  ;  it  seems  strange  that  what 
might  appear  the  finest  moment  in  hterature, 
the  moment  when  the  greatest  of  writers 
portrayed  the  greatest  man  of  action,  should 
be  half-spoiled.  Why  has  Shakespeare  made 
Caesar  a  far  less  engrossing  figure  than 
Hamlet,  Othello,  Macbeth,  Shylock,  and 
Falstaff  ?  All  these  difficulties  are  solved 
if  we  merely  content  ourselves  with  looking 
at  what  the  dramatist  has  done  instead  of 
what  we  assume  he  ought  to  have  intended. 
If  we  look  for  a  turn  of  events  sudden, 
startling,  and  illuminating,  we  find  it  at 
once,  not  in  the  assassination,  but  in  the 
thrilling  emergence  of  Mark  Antony  as  a 
formidable  opponent  of  the  repubhcans. 
The  "  question  of  the  play  "  is  not  "  What 
is  to  become  of  Caesar  ?  "  but  "  What  is  to 
become  of  the  republican  rising  ?  "  An- 
tony's Funeral  Speech  is  the  peripeteia, 
and  the  war  which  fills  the  later  scenes  is 
no  addendum,  but  a  magnificent  and  thor- 
oughly appropriate  denouement. 

It  was  remarked  above  that  in  comedy 
peripeteia  tends  to  be  less  remarkable,  or 
less  distinguished  as  possessing  all  the  three 


OF  DRAMA  183 

qualities  we  mentioned,  than  it  is  in  tragedy. 
If  we  turn  to  Aristophanes,  perhaps  the 
world's  greatest  comic  genius,  this  impression 
will  be  deepened.  In  the  Plutus,  the  peri- 
peteia or  recoil  is  the  recovery  of  sight  by 
the  blind  god  of  wealth,  which  is  followed 
by  an  effective  solution  or  denouement. 
But  the  catastrophe  is  not  sudden  ;  it  is 
foretold  and  elaborately  prepared.  Never- 
theless it  is  startling  and  illuminating. 
Here,  and  in  most  of  this  playwright's  work 
the  peripeteia  arrives  much  earlier  than 
elsewhere,  and  in  most  it  is  of  the  com- 
paratively mild  type.  His  peripeteia  usually 
occurs  at  the  consummation  of  the  topsy- 
turvy idea  with  which  the  play  opens — what 
Heine  called  the  Weltvernichtungsidee.  In 
The  Acharnians  the  tension  rises  steadily 
until  the  preposterous  private  peace  between 
a  single  Athenian  citizen  and  the  Spartan 
confederacy  is  completed  and  confirmed  by 
the  overthrow  of  Lamachus,  the  bombastic 
champion  of  militarism.  This  victory  is 
the  peripeteia,  fairly  sudden,  quite  startling, 
but  not  markedly  illuminating :  the  illu- 
mination has  been  given  progressively. 
Nevertheless,  the  position  has  been  radically 
altered.     Then  follows   a  long   denouementy 


184  THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 
with  a  farcical,  not  comic,  presentation  of 
the  blessings  thus  secured.  The  Peace  is 
closely  similar  ;  so  is  The  Birds  and  most 
other  comedies  from  the  same  pen.  In 
Moliere's  Tartuffe  the  catastrophe  occurs  at 
the  moment  when  Orgon  crawls  from  be- 
neath the  table  in  complete  disillusionment 
as  to  Tartuffe's  character  : — 

Voild,  je  vous  Tavoue,  un  abominable  homme  ! 
Je  n'en  puis  revenir,  et  tout  ceci  m'assomme. 

This  is  surely  a  fine  "  recoil  "  or  peripeteia, 
but  it  is  neither  sudden  nor  startling,  for 
we  have  long  known  that  Tartuffe  is  making 
love  to  Elmire,  and  have  watched  the  rather 
elaborate  preparation  made  by  her  for  the 
enlightenment  of  Orgon.  And  enlightened 
he  certainly  is ;  the  "  illumination "  we 
spoke  of  is  provided  in  full  measure. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  obvious  that  many 
comedies  have  catastrophes  no  less  complete 
than  those  of  the  greatest  tragedies.  Even 
Aristophanes  has  at  least  one  good  example. 
In  The  Frogs,  Dionysus,  who  has  descended 
into  Hades  with  the  purpose  of  fetching 
Euripides  back  to  life  as  the  greatest  tra- 
gedian, suddenly  announces  that  he  will  take 
iEschylus  instead  ;  this  peripeteia  is  techni- 
cally akin  to  those  of  tragedy.     That  exquis- 


OF  DRAMA  185 

ite  artist,  Terence,  has  created  a  beautiful 
catastrophe  in  The  Brothers  :  it  is  not  any 
revelation  about  the  love  affairs,  but  Demea's 
change  of  front,  caused  by  his  own  reflec- 
tions on  the  rival  theories  of  education  and 
social  amenity  held  by  his  brother  and  him- 
self. Similarly,  in  the  Phormio,  the  bigamy 
of  Chremes  is  revealed  to  much  purpose 
by  the  resourceful  sycophant.  Sheridan's 
School  for  Scandal  provides  by  means  of 
the  celebrated  screen  a  perfect  peripeteia. 
Synge's  Playboy  of  the  Western  World  (though 
its  fame  depends  upon  superb  dialogue, 
compared  with  which  the  plot  is  of  small 
interest)  contains  an  excellent  peripeteia  in 
the  sudden  appearance  of  the  "  murdered  " 
father. 

It  is,  on  the  other  side,  equally  obvious 
that  tragedies  not  infrequently  exhibit  catas- 
trophes such  as  we  have  shown  to  be  often 
present  in  comedy.  That  of  Othello  is 
gradual,  conviction  being  pressed  upon  the 
hero  more  and  more  effectually  in  several 
scenes  ;  but  it  ends  in  a  convulsion  startling 
and  (as  it  seems  to  Othello)  illuminating. 
That  of  ^schylus'  Persce — ^the  appalling 
announcement  to  the  Persians  of  the  utter 
overthrow  at   Salamis — is   not   illuminating 


186   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

until  reinforced  by  the  admonitions  and 
prophecies  uttered  by  the  ghost  of  Darius. 

In  short,  every  drama  has  a  peripeteia, 
whether  more  elaborate  or  less.  There  is 
always  a  reversal  of  the  situation,  a  climax 
of  tension  which  alters  fundamentally  the 
original  posture  of  affairs.  If  any  alleged 
drama  contains  no  such  feature,  it  is  not  a 
play  at  all.  This  dictum  will  cease  to  appear 
wantonly  pedantic  when  we  reflect  that 
such  works  (for  instance,  Mr.  Shaw's  Getting 
Married)  are  felt  on  all  hands  to  be  un- 
satisfactory, and  that  we  are  only  assigning 
a  precise  reason  for  this  dissatisfaction. 

Before  we  leave  this  part  of  our  theme, 
sometliing  must  be  said  concerning  the 
preparation  for  the  peripeteia.  In  the 
greatest  plays  we  saw  that  the  illumination 
provided  comes  suddenly.  But  however 
startled  we  may  be  when  it  arrives,  we  shall 
certainly  be  puzzled  or  antagonized  unless 
the  way  has  been  paved  for  it.  The  catas- 
trophe must  be  "  led  up  to,"  in  such  a  way 
that  we  accept  it  as  reasonable  without, 
however,  having  foreseen  it.  This  applies 
to  the  most  consummate  tragedies.  In 
others,  and  more  frequently  in  comedy,  we 
have  observed  preparations  so  elaborate  and 


OF  DRAMA  187 

obvious  that,  illuminating  as  the  climax  is, 
and  sudden  as  it  often  is,  it  is  in  these 
plays  not  startling.  But  the  method  of 
preparation  for  a  perfect  peripeteia  needs 
examination.  Frequently  it  takes  the  form 
of  a  whole  scene,  inserted  (so  to  put  it)  for 
this  purpose  only.  In  The  Merchant  of 
Venice  occurs  a  brief  interview  between 
Antonio,  when  in  chains,  and  Shylock. 
Short  as  it  is,  this  passage  is  highly  valuable 
to  the  plot.  First,  it  brings  home  to  us  the 
realization  of  the  Jew's  purpose  :  it  is  the 
complement  to  the  earlier  interview  in  which 
the  bargain  was  struck.  Further,  we  obtain 
artistic  pleasure  from  the  reversal  of  posi- 
tions :  he  who  before  was  the  fawning  in- 
ferior stands  forth  as  the  arrogant  master  ; 
he  who  lorded  it  with  easy  pride  now  begs 
indulgence.  But- — most  important  of  all — 
we  are  quietly  prepared  for  the  approaching 
swing-round  of  sympathy.  If  we  are  to 
feel  during  the  trial  scene  as  the  poet  wishes 
us  to  feel,  we  must  have  rid  ourselves  of  that 
irritation  against  Antonio,  that  sympathy 
with  Shylock,  which  the  early  part  of  the 
drama  has  naturally  awakened.  Shake- 
speare has  set  this  scene,  at  first  sight  so 
trifling,    just    in    this    place    for    just    this 


188   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

purpose ;  he  means  to  obliterate  a  great 
deal  of  the  emotion  aroused  by  that  un- 
answerable outburst  beginning 

Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft, 
In  the  Rialto,  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  monies,  and  my  usances. 

Another,  and  far  finer,  example  is  afforded 
by  Macbeth.  The  early  scenes  are  wrought 
with  such  astounding  skill  that  although 
Macbeth  meditates  the  crime  of  murder 
itself  upon  one  who  is  his  sovereign,  his 
guest,  his  benefactor,  a  virtuous  man  aged 
;  and  asleep,  we  yet  hold  our  breath  in  fear 
I  lest  he  should  not  accomplish  his  design. 
We  are  all  on  Macbeth's  side,  and  look  with 
cold  hostility  upon  the  good  m_en  and  true 
who  hold  him  in  suspicion  after  the  crime  is 
discovered.  This  is  a  miracle  of  craftsman- 
ship, but  its  success  makes  it  all  the  harder 
to  secure  our  hearty  applause  for  the  de- 
struction of  the  usurper  at  the  end.  To 
meet  the  need,  Shakespeare  gives  us  a  brief 
scene,  most  unwisely  omitted  in  some  modern 
representations — ^the  butchery  of  Macduff's 
wife  and  splendid  little  son.  This  concen- 
tration of  pathos,  horror,  shame,  and  vil- 
lainy brings  mercilessly  before  us  the  mean- 
ing to  Scotland  of  Macbeth's  dominion  ;    it 


OF  DRAMA  189 

is  forced  violently  upon  our  gaze,  and  we 
sicken.  In  a  companion  scene  this  is  brought 
to  bear — the  announcement  to  Macduff  and 
his  friends.  One  notes  in  passing  how  the 
two  passages  are  stuck  deep  into  our  minds 
by  what  can  only  be  called  the  ferocious 
quaintness  of  the  language — "  What,  you 
egg  !     Young  fry  of  treachery  !  "  and 

What,  all  my  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam 
At  one  fell  swoop  ? — 

words  that  even  amid  the  gorgeous  language 
of  the  whole  tragedy  cannot  be  forgotten. 
So  it  is  that  when  Macduff,  not  Malcolm 
(for  we  have  not  actually  witnessed  the 
murder  of  Duncan,  his  father),  at  length 
faces  the  tyrant,  all  our  sympathy  is 
found  to  have  deserted  Macbeth  for  his 
adversary. 

Equal  skill  is  put  forth  by  ^schylus  in 
Agamemnon,  or,  more  exactly,  in  the  tri- 
logy of  which  that  drama  is  the  first 
part.  Throughout  most  of  Agamemnon  the 
playwright  wishes  us  to  see  events  from 
Clytsemnestra's  point  of  view,  although  she 
treacherously  murders  her  husband,  on  his 
triumphant  return  from  Troy,  in  order  to 
be  free  for  ^Egisthus  and  to  share  Agamem- 
non's throne  with  him.    Therefore  not  only  is 


190   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

her  husband  represented  as  cold,  arrogant, 
shallow  ;  the  outrage  he  inflicted  years  ago 
upon  his  wife  by  slaying  their  daughter 
Iphigeneia  is  time  and  again  mentioned, 
above  all  in  an  unspeakably  beautiful  and 
pathetic  lyrical  narrative.  Again,  although 
the  Queen  has  a  lover,  through  all  the 
terrible  scenes  of  her  own  plotting  and 
crime  she  stands  alone,  while  Agamemnon's 
unwilling  concubine  Cassandra  is  exhibited 
by  him  with  careless  brutality  to  his  wife 
and  to  the  whole  city.  Thus  everything  is 
done  to  secure  our  sympathy  for  Clytsem- 
nestra.  But  when  this  tragedy  is  over,  we 
are  to  pass  at  once  to  The  Libation-Bearers^ 
wherein  Orestes  avenges  his  royal  father  by 
slaying  the  murderess,  his  own  mother,  and 
retains  our  sympathy  even  while  so  acting. 
If  this  sympathy  is  to  be  possible  every 
available  device  is  clearly  needed.  Accord- 
ingly we  find  Orestes  impelled  to  his  frightful 
task,  not  only  by  desire  to  avenge  his  father 
and  seize  the  usurped  sceptre,  but  by  the 
unmistakable  fiat  of  the  Most  High  and  by 
appalling  threats  in  the  event  of  disobedience. 
But  the  special  point  we  have  now  in  mind 
is  this.  Just  as  we  are  about  to  enter  upon 
The  Libation-Bearers^  at  the  close  of  Agamem- 


OF  DRAMA  191 

non,  we  are  prepared  for  the  necessary 
swing-round  of  sympathy  by  the  entrance 
of  ^gisthus,  Clytsemnestra's  paramour,  who 
sums  up  in  his  own  person  all  the  evil  of 
which  the  Queen  is  guilty,  everything  which 
can  rouse  our  hostility  against  her.  Had  he 
appeared  in  the  earlier  scenes,  the  atmos- 
phere and  tone  which  iEschylus  there  needed 
would  have  been  impossible.  The  poet 
introduces  him  not  too  soon,  and  just  in 
time. 

Each  of  these  three  great  phases,  com- 
plication, catastrophe,  and  denouement,  is 
exposed  to  a  peculiar  and  special  danger. 
It  is  enough  here  to  remind  the  reader  of 
that  which  threatens  the  second  phase. 
We  have  already  shown  that  those  catas- 
trophes are  bad  which  are  obtruded  on  us 
with  no  warning  at  all — ^the  deiis  ex  machina, 
or  "  Uncle  Peter  "  as  we  called  him. 

The  commonest  weakness  of  complication- 
scenes  ("  First  Acts  ")  is  an  over-developed 
medley  of  incidents  and  minor  characters, 
which  offer  a  number  of  false  trails  and 
prevent  us  from  seeing  as  early  as  we 
should  what  the  problem  or  question  is. 
Ancient  drama,  by  its  very  nature  as 
"  classical  "  work,  contains  no   instance   of 


192   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

this ;  but  for  the  analogous  reason  it  is 
fairly  common  in  modern  drama.  Such  a 
bushy  beginning  is  to  be  found  in  M.  Henri 
Lavedan's  Viveurs.  This  is  an  admirably 
vigorous  picture  of  many  people  whose 
interests  clash  or  entwine  themselves  to- 
gether, but  all  is  detailed  and  minor  ;  only 
late  in  the  play  do  we  fully  realize  that  it 
is  Mme.  Blandin's  emotional  experience  and 
development  which  provide  the  structure. 
But  it  is  significant  that  spectators  of  the 
presentation  found  far  less  difficulty,  since 
the  role  of  Mme.  Blandin  was  played  by  one 
of  the  most  celebrated  actresses  in  the  world, 
Mme.  Rejane.  A  similar  vagueness,  but 
sooner  dispelled,  marks  the  opening  of  Mr. 
Granville  Barker's  The  Madras  House  :  Hux- 
table's  daughters  are  so  numerous  and  so 
talkative  that,  while  one  admires  the  dread- 
ful verisimilitude  of  the  household,  one 
wonders  (as  the  phrase  goes)  "  what  it  is  all 
about."  This  quality  is  often  to  be  re- 
marked in  Russian  drama,  not  excluding 
Tchekof's  celebrated  Cherry  Orchard.  Or 
we  may  go  much  further  and  assert  that  the 
Russian  playwrights  tend  to  employ  this 
"  bushiness  "  from  beginning  to  end  of  a 
play  ;    construction  melts  into  atmosphere. 


OF  DRAMA  193 

foreground  merges  into  background.  This 
applies  to  some  English  work  influenced 
by  the  Russian  vogue  ;  for  example,  Mr. 
Shaw's  Heartbreak  House,  which  formally 
claims  to  be  "a  Fantasia  in  the  Russian 
manner  on  English  themes,"  is  certainly 
justified  of  its  pretensions.  It  does  indeed 
possess  a  plot  which  can  be  stated,  but  the 
plot  is  well-nigh  overgrown  by  a  jungle  of 
little  happenings,  minor  exits  and  entrances, 
and  unrelated  controversies  which  exist  only 
to  convey  atmosphere. 

Much  more  needs  to  be  said  about  denoue- 
ment ;  and  before  we  discuss  its  besetting 
danger,  let  us  point  to  a  feature  which  is 
fairly  common  in  our  time  and  which  has 
been  mistakenly  censured.  This  feature  has 
often  been  described  by  the  remark  :  "  The 
curtain  descends  upon  a  note  of  interroga- 
tion." It  may  seem  clear  that,  if  the  con- 
cluding phase  should  provide  a  "  solution," 
nothing  could  well  be  worse  than  to  end  with 
a  question,  a  difficulty  unsettled.  But  here 
is  a  misunderstanding.  The  "  last  act " 
must  solve  the  original  complication,  but 
it  may  itself,  without  any  breach  whatso- 
ever of  artistic  perfection,  contain  a  question 
or  actually  consist  of  one.     The  reader  will 


194        THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 
recall  a  familiar  joke.     "  Is  it  true  that  you 
Americans  always  answer  one  question  with 
another  ?  "     ''  Do    we  ?  "     Take   the    finale 
of  A  DolVs  House,     It  matters  nothing  that 
we  end  with  a  breach  between  husband  and 
wife  which  may  or  may  not  be  closed  and 
the  possibility  of  closing  which  is  actually 
mooted    by    them.     That    breach,    however 
important,    is    no    flaw    in    the    dramatic 
structure ;      nay,    it    is    necessary    to    the 
solution.     The  denouement  demanded  by  the 
earlier  scenes  is  certainly  not  a  new  modus 
Vivendi  arranged  by  the  illuminated  Torvald 
and    Nora.     Neither    is    yet    competent    to 
suggest    any    really    satisfying    and    sound 
basis  of  married  life  ;   indeed  Nora's  spiritual 
immaturity  is  again  and  again  pressed  upon 
us — it    is    this    which    involves    her    with 
Krogstad,    this    which    alone    justifies    the 
tarantella  dance  and  the  macaroons.     No  ; 
the  poet  has  carefully  and  justly  restricted 
the    denouement  to   this,   that    Nora's   eyes 
are  completely  opened  to  the  conditions  of 
her    married    life,   and   that    she    insists   on 
understanding  things  better  than  she  does 
before  continviing  to  live  with  her  husband  ; 
the    "  question "    is    an   integral   and   vital 
part  of  the  solution.     Again,  in  the  Rhesus 


OF  DRAMA  195 

attributed  to  Euripides,  it  is  not  clear,  from 
the  play  itself,  whether  the  Trojans,  when 
they  arm  at  the  close,  are  going  forth  to 
victory  or  disaster  ;  but  that  does  not 
imply  any  futility  at  all  in  the  dramatic 
form,  since  the  question  set  by  the  tragedy 
is  only  this  :  What  will  result  from  the 
unexpected  arrival  of  Rhesus  to  succour 
Troy  ?  It  has  been  objected  against  Mr. 
Barker's  play.  The  Voysey  Inheritance,  that 
we  cannot  tell,  when  the  curtain  falls, 
whether  young  Edward  Voysey  will  be 
exposed  and  ruined  or  not.  This,  again, 
matters  nothing  to  the  plot,  which  is  con- 
cerned, not  with  his  social  repute  or  wealth, 
but  only  with  the  question  :  How  will  he 
face  the  strange  responsibility  fixed  upon 
him  by  his  father  ?  He  accepts  it  with  all 
its  consequences  ;  what  the  danger  actually 
brings  to  him  is  not  the  point,  and  Mr. 
Barker  has  shown  admirable  artistic  bold- 
I  ness  in  leaving  unanswered  an  irrelevant 
i  question— to  answer  it  would  have  been  to 
blur  the  issue. 

The  danger  which  does  beset  the  solution- 
stage  of  the  play  is  utterly  different ;  it  is 
an  irrational  simplicity,  or  rather  simplifica- 
tion, the  adoption  of  improper   short   cuts 


i 
196   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS       ; 

in    order    to    end    matters    quickly,    neatly,    ' 
completely.     The  reason  for  this  seems  to   i 
be  that  the  playwright  has  misconceived  the    i 
nature   of  a   dramatic   ending ;     he   inclines   j 
to  confuse   climax,   catastrophe,   peripeteia,   j 
with   conclusion,    denouement,   solution.     As  ^ 
we    have    seen,    the    catastrophe    does    not   \ 
properly   solve   the    problem,    but    provides  j 
a    method    of,    or    means    to,    a    solution ;   j 
thereafter  follows,  or  should  follow,  a  phase   ' 
equally    needed,    the    working-out    of    the 
solution.     CEdipus  Tyr annus  affords  an  ex- 
cellent example  of  this  difference,  but  there 
are  naturally  many  such  masterpieces.     In 
Man  and  Superman  Mr.   Shaw  produces  a 
fine  catastrophe  in  Ann's  avowal  of  her  love 
to  John  Tanner  ;    but  how  he  will  meet  this 
crisis  is  a  new  question,  and  (in  view  of  the  \ 
character   and    opinions    which    he   has   re-  | 
vealed)    a    question   fraught   with    deep    in-  \ 
t crest.     In    The   Brothers,    by    Terence,   the 
climax    (we    saw)    is    Demea's    decision    to 
change  his  manners.     This  forms  anything 
but  a  conclusion  or  solution  :    we  look  with 
excited  amusement  to  see  how  this  resolve 
will    affect    the    two    young    men    and  the 
elderly   Micio  whom  Demea   has  at  length 
decided  to  beat  at  his  own  game.     Juliust 

I 


OF  DRAMA  197 

Ccesar  contains  a  very  long  elaborate  denoue- 
ment which  no  one  could  conceivably  confuse 
with  the  peripeteia.  In  Moliere's  Le  Misan- 
thrope the  peripeteia  is  of  course  the  scene 
where  the  coquette  Celimene  is  at  length 
"  brought  to  book  "  by  the  production  of  her 
hopelessly  damaging  letter  in  the  presence 
of  her  various  suitors.  But  no  reader  or 
spectator  can  tell  whether  this  will  or  will 
not  throw  her  finally  into  the  arms  of 
Alceste  ;  in  fact  the  conclusion  is  probably 
felt  by  most  as  a  shock. 

But  instances  need  not  be  multiplied ; 
any  good  play  distinguishes  climax  and 
conclusion.  Only  bad  writers  entirely  con- 
fuse them ;  nevertheless,  competent  play- 
wrights do  at  times  incline  towards  such 
confusion.  But  we  must  beware  of  bringing 
under  this  head  plays  with  a  denouement 
which  is  brief,  or  less  interesting  than  the 
climax  or  perhaps  than  any  of  the  earlier 
scenes,  as  in  many  light  comedies,  such  as 
Mr.  Arnold  Bennett's' T^^  Honeymoon,  The 
fault  we  have  in  view  is  the  idea  that  after 
the  peripeteia  there  is  nothing  to  do  save  to 
"  pick  up  the  pieces  " — the  audience  knows 
and  understands  everything  ;  let  us  simply 
square  things  up  and  ring  down  the  curtain. 


198   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

So  it  comes  to  pass  that  the  characters 
forget  their  own  natures,  drop  the  purposes 
which  have  sustained  them  hitherto,  reveal 
ludicrously  casual  forgetfulness  or  generosity, 
in  order  to  put  everything  "  straight."  Thus 
at  the  close  of  Cymbeline,  so  as  to  get  rid 
of  the  war  with  Rome  which  might  disturb 
the  spectators  amid  the  joy  caused  by  all 
the  personal  reconciliations,  the  King  glibly 
utters  this  incredible  announcement  : — 

And,  Caius  Lucius, 
Although  the  victor,  we  submit  to  Caesar, 
And  to  the  Roman  empire,  promising 
To  pay  our  wonted  tribute,  from  the  which 
We  were  dissuaded  by  our  wicked  queen  : 
Whom  heavens,  in  justice,  both  on  her  and  hers. 
Have  laid  most  heavy  hand. 

This  calm  assumption,  conceived  by  a  British 
king,  that  Heaven  willed  the  subjection  of 
Britain  to  Rome  so  definitely  as  to  make 
patriotism  a  species  of  impiety — an  assump- 
tion which  would  be  out  of  the  question  in 
the  body  of  any  play,  whether  composed  by 
Shakespeare  or  by  the  completest  dunce — 
is  a  first-rate  example  of  what  we  may  term 
the  "  huddled  "  ending.  It  would  be  difficult 
to  find  elsewhere  quite  such  perfect  rubbish, 
but  the  lapse  in  technique  is  common. 
Euripides'    Alcestis    provides    at    the    close 


OF  DRAMA  199 

not  only  no  account  of  the  manner  in  which 
Heracles  rescued  the  Queen  from  the  Death- 
fiend  (an  omission  which  may  well  have  a 
vital   bearing   on  the   whole   plot),   but   no 
conversation   or   real   contact   between  Ad- 
metus  and  his  restored  wife.     In  Monsieur 
Piegois,   by   M.   Alfred   Capus,   Piegois   not 
only  relinquishes  his  career  as   director   of 
the    casino,    but    gives    the    whole    concern 
over  to  the  town,  for  no  discoverable  reason 
save  to  create  an  amiable  sensation  in  the 
theatre.      St.    John    Hankin,    too,    sinned 
grievously  in  The  Two  Mr,  Wetherbys.     The 
whole   point   of   Richard   Wetherby   is    his 
humorous   but   adamantine   resolve   not  to 
come  back  to  his  wife.     The  plot  is  built 
on  this,   but   at   the   last   moment,   though 
no  new  factor  has  appeared,  he  collapses, 
simply  for  the  sake  of  a  good  "curtain" — 
to   produce  a  neat  tableau  of  two  couples 
instead    of    one    couple   plus    two    isolated 
persons ;     it   is   the   cheapest   theatricality, 
and   a    most    curious   phenomenon    in   this 
author,    who   expressed   himself   later   very 
strongly    against    the    mechanical    "  happy 
ending,"  and  in  such  an  admirable  drama 
as  The  Last  of  the  de  Mullins   achieved   a 
capital  solution.     "Huddled"  scenes  are  in- 


200   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

deed  usually  employed  to  secure  a  ''  happy 
ending,"  as  in  the  numberless  Elizabethan 
plays  where  incongruous  and  unsuspecting 
minor  persons  are  hastily  betrothed  by  an 
unscrupulous  dramatist.  The  Duke  in 
Twelfth  Night  at  the  last  minute  turns 
unaccountably  to  Viola  from  Olivia ;  at 
the  end  of  A  Winter^s  Tale,  Camillo  and 
Paulina  become  affianced  without  having 
shown  any  hint  of  such  interest  in  one 
another — simply  because  it  is  the  end  of 
A  Winter's  Tale,  not  the  beginning  ;  Isa- 
bella's acceptance  of  the  Duke  in  Measure 
for  Measure  is  still  worse.  These  absurd 
nuptials,  and  a  hundred  more,  are  poverty- 
stricken  devices  to  secure  that  crispness  of 
action  which  should  depend  on  sanely- 
developed  psychology,  not  on  a  feverish 
hustle  less  appropriate  to  a  clear-headed 
artist  than  to  a  traveller  who  wildly  packs 
a  portmanteau  just  in  time  for  his  train. 
Oscar  Wilde's  cynical  attitude  towards  the 
stage  was  never  revealed  more  pungently 
than  when  at  the  close  of  The  Importance  of 
Being  Earnest  he  bade  Miss  Prism  and  the 
Canon  fall  into  one  another's  arms  without 
the  shadow  of  excuse  or  warning.  The 
conclusion  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice  is  in 


OF  DRAMA  201 

this  respect  highly  curious.  The  peripeteia 
is,  of  course,  the  sudden  ruUng  that  Shylock 
must  take  no  more  and  no  less  than  exactly 
one  pound  of  flesh.  The  denouement  (properly 
so  called)  is  not  the  whole  of  what  follows, 
namely  part  of  the  Fourth,  and  the  whole  of 
the  Fifth,  Act;  that  portion  of  the  drama 
contains  the  genuine  denouement  and  more. 
For  the  problem  of  the  play  is  ;  What  will 
result  from  Shylock' s  hatred  against  An- 
tonio ?  The  denouement  as  usual  gives  the 
answer  by  aid  of  the  peripeteia  :  Shylock 
is  utterly  baffled,  while  Antonio  receives 
both  life  and  money  to  compensate  his 
losses  at  sea.  Therefore  the  play  might 
have  ended  with  the  close  of  the  Trial 
Scene,  and  assuredly  the  Fifth  Act,  delightful 
as  it  is  and  containing  as  it  does  some  of  the 
most  marvellous  poetry  that  even  Shake- 
speare ever  penned,  strikes  us  all  as  a  kind 
of  appendix ;  we  hardly  feel  that  it  is 
needed.  We  should  regard  it  still  more 
definitely  as  intrusive  had  not  the  playwright 
mechanically  inserted  a  few  hooks  in  the 
Fourth  Act  whereon  to  hang  it,  notably  the 
brief  scene  where  the  supposed  advocate 
and  clerk  coax  Bassanio  and  Gratiano  into 
surrendering  their  rings.     Further,   we   are 


202   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

prepared  for  the  scene  of  Lorenzo  and 
Jessica  by  Antonio's  insistence  before  the 
court  that  Shylock  be  compelled  to  provide 
for  them.  All  this  seems  anything  but  a 
huddled  ending  ;  it  shows  on  the  contrary  a 
quite  languid  development.  There  is  never- 
theless a  short  huddled  passage  concernedwith 
the  main  plot.  Antonio  is  to  be  fully  restored, 
and  so  Portia  suddenly  thrusts  at  him  certain 
letters — how  she  came  by  them  we  are  left  to 
guess — ^which  report  that  all  his  supposedly 
lost  ships  are  "  safely  come  to  land." 

A  moment  ago  we  used  the  phrase  "  main 
plot."  It  might  seem  from  our  discussion 
of  plot  that  the  term  is  self-contradictory. 
But  secondary  or  minor  plots  of  course 
abound.  Are  they  legitimate  ?  This  ques- 
tion is  not  so  troublesome  as  might  appear. 
An  "under-plot"  is  always  interesting  and 
complete  in  itself  (else  it  would  not  be  a 
plot  at  all)  but  it  may  and  should  support 
the  main  action.  Just  so  an  ^Eschylean 
play  can  be  read — now,  unfortunately,  must 
as  a  rule  be  read — and  appreciated  in  itself  ; 
but  on  studying  the  whole  trilogy  we  per- 
ceive that  it  forms  part  of  a  still  greater 
organism.  The  by-play  of  Trinculo  and 
Stephano  is  valuable   as  bringing   out  the 


OF  DRAMA  203 

nature  of  Caliban  and  so  strengthening  our 
appreciation  of  Prospero.  But  if  the  two 
plots  are  essentially  separate  and  are  only 
tied  together  by  some  thin  device,  for  ex- 
ample, by  the  fact  that  the  same  character 
happens,  and  merely  happens,  to  take  part 
in  both,  then  the  minor  plot  is  technically 
improper.  It  may  be  magnificent  in  itself 
— ^the  Falstaff  scenes  of  Henry  IV,,  Part  I., 
fall  under  this  category — but  it  is  a  flaw 
in  the  whole  drama  as  a  drama.  We  are, 
in  short,  presented  with  two  plays  instead 
of  one.  We  may  say,  if  we  choose,  that  the 
discussion  deals  purely  with  technical  labels  ; 
but  on  the  other  side  let  us  not  deny  that 
no  one  can  recollect  the  whole  action  of 
Henry  IV.,  Part  I.,  of  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  of  Cymbeline,  without  two  entirely 
distinct  mental  processes,  exactly  as  the 
reader  of  Dickens  finds  it  an  effort  to  remem- 
ber that  Mrs.  Gamp  and  Mr.  Ehjah  Pogram 
appear  between  the  covers  of  the  same 
novel. 

It  may  prove  useful,  before  bringing  this 
essay  to  an  end,  to  discuss  a  few  among  the 
many  misconceptions  which  have  helped 
to  confuse  popular  opinion  and  even  pro- 
fessional   criticism  —  misuse    of    words    and 


204   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

incorrect  doctrines.  "  Dramatic  "  is  a  term 
often  wrongly  applied.  People  think  of 
drama,  not  as  a  certain  form  of  art,  but  as 
what  they  have  been  accustomed  to  see  in 
a  theatre.  Now,  the  majority  of  successful 
plays  in  our  time  (to  mention  no  other) 
have  been  less  strong  in  genuine  dramatic 
art  than  in  theatricality — ^that  is,  a  vivid 
picture  of  bustle,  violence,  excitement,  a 
falsetto  note  of  vague  momentousness.  Play 
after  play  has  been  presented  which  is  de- 
rived, not  from  life  or  any  direct  thought 
about  life,  but  from  imitation  of  the  last 
piece  which  has  won  applause.  Hence  that 
artificial  heightening  and  stressing,  those 
sudden  entrances  and  exits,  those  French 
windows,  those  "  strong  curtains,"  all  the 
va-et'Vient  of  alternate  emotions  with  which 
every  one  is  so  familiar,  and  which — here  is 
the  deadly  point — ^form  the  only  scenic 
pabulum  available  in  the  vast  majority  of 
provincial  towns.  Then,  what  is  merely 
theatrical  is  dubbed  "  dramatic  "  ;  any  occa- 
sion when  one  feels  that  "  something  is 
going  to  happen  "  is  given  this  adjective. 
An  important  criminal  case  is  called  "  drama- 
tic "  because  the  black  cap  lies  on  the  judge's 
table,    or   because   a   Cabinet   Minister   is  a 


OF  DRAMA  205 

witness — that  is,  we  experience  the  appetiz- 
ing thrill  which  a  pretentious  stage-spectacle 
affords.  The  judge's  rebuke  has  even  become 
a  jocular  proverb  :  "  This  court  is  not  a 
theatre."  As  a  fact,  a  murder  case  may  be 
utterly  undramatic,  and  a  trial  which  centres 
round  a  sordid  theft  may  be  full  of  drama, 
as  Mr.  Galsworthy  has  admirably  demon- 
strated. Another  abused  word  is  "  tra- 
gedy," incessantly  applied  by  journalists  to 
any  violent  death,  apparently  because  in 
so  many  real  tragedies  the  chief  person  loses 
his  life.  It  will  naturally  be  so,  since  this 
is  the  easiest  way  to  communicate  a  sense 
of  solemnity  and  to  strip  the  disguise  from 
people  and  situations.  But  even  if  a  tragedy 
always  contained  a  death  (which  is  not  true) 
it  by  no  means  follows  that  every  death, 
even  violent  death,  is  tragic.  It  must 
involve  not  only  a  human  life,  but  also  the 
victory,  defeat,  or  rescue  of  some  idea 
important  to  human  beings.  But  in  news- 
paper jargon,  if  a  pauper  dies  just  before 
news  of  sudden  wealth  reaches  him,  or  if  a 
child  is  killed  by  an  overdose  of  medicine, 
these  events  are  called  tragedies.  Pitiful 
they  are,  but  not  (as  reported)  tragic  in  the 
least  ;    there  is  far  more  of  tragedy  in  the 


206   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

death  of  a  bird,  if  it  means  what  Ibsen's 
wild  duck  means.  So  debased  is  our  use  of 
words  that  a  few  years  ago  a  newspaper 
remarked  concerning  certain  deaths  from 
disease  :  "  Some  of  these  tragedies  are 
dramatic  "  !  A  third  misused  term  is  "  catas- 
trophe." Critics  have  been  known  to  apply 
it  loosely  to  the  conclusion  of  a  drama,  thus 
mischievously  confusing  climax  or  peripeteia 
with  denouement  Far  more  frequent  is  the 
implication  of  "  disaster,"  mostly  (it  is  true) 
about  real  and  non-dramatic  events,  such 
as  a  fatal  shipwreck,  but  sometimes  of  a 
disastrous  event  in  the  course  of  a  play, 
which  is  not  a  real  catastrophe  in  the  least, 
such  as  Caesar's  murder,  or  the  death  of 
Alcestis. 

Few  doctrines  are  more  frequently  ex- 
pressed than  this,  that  tragedy,  or  even 
comedy,  shows  Man  in  conflict  with  Fate, 
or  Circumstance,  as  it  is  sometimes  called. 
One  hears  a  good  deal  about  "  puppets  of 
Fate,"  and  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy  plainly 
imagines  himself  to  have  derived  from 
iEschylus  a  point  of  view  which,  though  it 
leaves  his  works  unimpaired  as  magnificent 
works  of  art,  does  make  them  at  times 
grossly  unfair  pictures  of  the  Divine  Govern- 


OF  DRAMA  207 

ment  ;  namely,  his  idea  that  the  dice  are 
always  cogged  in  favour  of  sorrow,  waste, 
misunderstanding,  that  accident  is  invariably 
unhappy  accident.  Such  a  doctrine  can  be 
attributed  to  ^schylus  only  by  a  grave 
mistake.  And  as  regards  the  general  pro- 
position, it  is  possible  to  regard  drama  as 
depicting  Man's  struggle  against  Fate  only 
if  we  dilute  "  Fate  "  until  all  definite  mean- 
ing vanishes.  What  a  playwright  ultimately 
believes  as  a  religious  or  metaphysical  fact 
is  one  thing  ;  what  he  actually  adduces  as 
the  initial  point  of  his  play  is  another. 
And  he  always  thus  adduces  a  specific 
situation  clearly  attributable  to  the  circum- 
scribed acts,  hopes,  and  fears  of  people, 
not  to  any  arrangement  of  the  Universe  ; 
even  in  the  Prometheus  we  are  concerned 
with  a  purely  personal  Zeus. 

It  is  a  common  theory  that  dramatists 
should  present  us  with  "a  slice  of  life." 
Two  errors  are  here  combined:  that  drama 
imitates  life,  and  that  the  author  cuts  off 
a  portion  from  a  real  sequence  of  events  and 
stages  it  without  more  ado.  The  latter  idea 
need  not  detain  us.  It  is  plain  that  a 
dramatist  organizes  his  material,  giving  to 
it  structure  and  lucidity,  emphasizing  ten- 


208   THE  NATURE  AND  METHODS 

dencies  only  latent  in  actual  affairs,  and 
omitting  the  irrelevant.  But  that  he  imi- 
tates life  may  seem  a  more  attractive  theory. 
His  real  task,  however,  is  not  to  imitate 
but  to  interpret,  and  the  semblance  of 
actuality  is  but  the  beginning  of  the  work. 
Constable  represented  the  Glebe  Farm  accu- 
rately, no  doubt,  but  his  painting  will  never 
be  mistaken  for  a  coloured  photograph. 
Similarly,  the  most  realistic  of  playwrights 
may  vividly  present  a  quarrel  or  a  con- 
spiracy, but  he  is  transmuting  in  the  very 
moment  at  which  we  cry,  "  How  natural ! " 
—he  gives  text  and  comment  in  one  breath, 
which  is  the  method  of  all  art. 

Finally,  the  most  famous  of  all  theories 
concerning  the  drama  may  be  dismissed  in 
few  words.  It  was  long  claimed  that  tragedy 
should  follow  the  "classical"  style  and 
conform  to  the  Three  Unities,  of  Action,  Time, 
and  Place,  because  Aristotle  in  his  Poetic 
has  so  ordained.  Not  only  is  it  possible 
to  reply  that  Aristotle's  "  rules "  do  not 
bind  human  activity  for  ever,  not  only  is  it 
obvious  to  point  out  that,  in  all  his  "rules," 
he  is  manifestly  doing  no  more  than  to 
codify  the  practice  of  Greek  playwrights  in 
his  own  and  earlier  times ;  much  more  than 


OF  DRAMA  209 

all  this,  it  is  the  bald  truth — ^though  it  is 
difficult  to  believe  it,  for  this  celebrated 
"  rule  "  has  been  repeated  for  centuries  and 
has  cramped  French  tragedy  in  the  hands 
of  great  masters — it  is  the  truth  that  Aristotle 
never  mentions  the  ''Three  Unities."  He 
insists,  naturally,  on  the  importance  of 
unity  in  action,  and  makes  one  passing 
remark  that  it  is  advisable  to  restrict  the 
events  of  a  drama  to  one  revolution  of  the 
sun,  but  has  not  a  word  on  the  "Unity  of 
Place,"  which  is  signally  violated  in  the 
Eumenides  of  iEschylus,  the  Ajax  of  Soph- 
ocles, and  in  several  of  Aristophanes' 
comedies.  The  "Three  Unities"  are  the 
greatest  imposture  in  the  history  of  criticism. 


INDEX  OF   PLACES 


IE.  =^schylus,  Ar.  =Aristoplianes,  B.  =Barker,  E.  =Euripides, 
G.  =  Galsworthy,  H.  =Hankin,  I.  =Ibsen,  M.  =Moli6re, 
P.  =Pmero,  S.  =Sophocles,  Sh.  =Shakespeare,  W.  =Wilde 


vEgean  Sea,  41 

Argos,  17,  41 

Athens,  5-6,  38-9,  44,  46 

—  and  Persia,  5-6 

Aulis,  16 

Belmont,  140 
Birmingham,         Repertory 

theatres  in,  107 
Birnam  Wood,  178 
Brighton,  87 
Britain,  43,  50,  igS 

Cathay,  5 

Ghristchurch,  Oxford,  66 
Colchis,  30 
Copenhagen,  52 
Corinth,  30,  35 

Dakota,  31 
Dublin,  107 
Dunsinane,  141,  178 

Eastcheap,  140 

England,    1-2,    3,    5,    49,    57, 

124  ;     in   the    nineteenth 

century,  3 
Europe,  4 

Fife,  167 

Forest  of  Arden,  141 

Gadshill,  117 

Gaul,  43 

Germany,  Ibsen  in,  52,  56 

Glasgow,  107 

Greece,  11,  41 


Hades,  in  Ar.  Frogs,  47,  184 
Hampton  Court,  141 

lolchos,  29 
Ireland,  4 

London,  3,  52,  107-8 

Monte  Carlo,  66 
Mycenae,  24 

New  South  Wales,  164 
Nile,  141 

Persia,  5-6,  185-6 
Phthia,  19 

Queensland,  31 

Rialto,  The,  188 
Rome,  124,  188 

Salamis,  185 

Scandinavia,  I.'s  plays  in,  52 

Scotland,  4,  188 

Sipylus,  19 

Spain,  43 

Sparta,  and  King  of  Sparta,  40 

Stratford-on-Avon,  141 

Thebes,  178 
Thessaly,  43 
Troy,  16,  i8,  20,  24,  40,  41-2, 

189,  195 
Tuileries,  73 


Wales,  4 
I  Waterloo, 


181 


212 


EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 


INDEX  OF  PERSONS  AND  WORKS 


Names  of  authors  in  small  capitals,  of  works  in  italics 


Abraham  Lincoln,  see  Drink- 
water 

Acharnians,  The,  see  Aristo- 
phanes 

Achilles,  in  E.  /.  at  A.,  i6  £f., 
41 ;  speech  of,  trans.,  18  ff. 

Achurch,  Miss  Janet,  52 

Admetus,  130,  199 

Admirable  Crichton,  The,  see 
Barrie 

^gisthus,  in  M.  A  gam.,  189- 
91 ;  in  E.  Electra,  24,  26  f. 

^scHYLUS,  25,  47,  146,  147, 
148,  189  ff. 

—  and  Hardy,  206 

—  in  Ar.  Frogs,  184 

—  Agamemnon,       133,       154, 

189  ff. 

—  ChoephorcB,  150,  170 

—  Eumenides,  209 

—  Perscs,  catastrophe  of,  185  f . 

—  Prometheus     Vinctus,     150, 

207  ;     economy   in,    169  ; 
peripeteia  in,  177 

—  Supplices,  170 

—  The      Libation  -  Bearers 

{=:Choeph.),  190  ff. 
Agamemnon,  in  M.Ag. ,  i8g  i.  ; 

in  E.  Electra,  17  ff.,  24  fE. 
Agamemnon,  see  -^Eschylus 
Ajax,  see  Sophocles 
Alceste,  in  M,  Le  Misanthrope, 

150,  176,  197 
Alcestis,  in  E.  Ale,  130,  199, 

206 
Alcestis,  see  Euripides 
Alice  in  Wonderland,  67 
Anatol,  see  Schnitzler 
Andersen,  Hans,  140 
Andreiev,  The  Sabine  Women, 

133 

Androcles  and  the  Lion,  see 
Shaw 


Andromache,  in  E.  Andr.,  40 
Andromache,  see  Euripides 
Antigone,  see  Sophocles 
Antonio,  in  Sh.  M.  of  V.,  75-6, 

168,  187-8,  201-2 
Antony,   Mark,  in  Sh.   /.   C, 

136,     140  ;      his     funeral 

speech,  156,  182 
Antony     and     Cleopatra,     see 

Shakespeare 
Apollo,  in  E.  Electra,  24 
Archer,    Mr.    William,    52  ; 

his     Play  making,     112  n.  ; 

(pp.  23-41),  145  n. 
Are  You  a  Mason  ?  152 
Aristophanes,  ii,  148 

—  and  Euripides,  45  ff. 

—  and   the   "  Three   Unities," 

209 

—  his    comedy    often    passes 

into  farce,  120-1 

—  Acharyiians,  183 

—  Birds,  184 

—  Frogs,    46 ;     peripeteia    in, 

177,  184 

—  Peace,  184 

—  Plutus,  183 
Aristotle,     162  ;      and     the 

"  Three  Unities,"  208-g  ; 
on  irrational  elements  in 
drama,  130  ;  on  plot, 
144  ;  on  slaves,  33 
Aristotle's  canons,  53  ; 
desis,      132  ;      peripeteia, 

175 

—  rule  of  plot-construction,  174 

Arms  and  the  Man,  see  Shaw 

Artemis,  17,  41,  168 

As  You  Like  It,  see  Shakes- 
peare 

Athena,  in  E.,  45 

Atreus,  sons  of,  in  E.  /.  at  A., 
18 


INDEX  OF  PERSONS  AND  WORKS     213 


Audrey,  in  Sh,  As  You,  170 
AuGiER,  La  Pierre  de  Touche, 

153 

Avari^s,  Les,  see  Brieux 

BacchcB,  see  Euripides 
Back  to  Methuselah,  see  Shaw 
Baillie,  Joanna,  49 
Banquo,  167 

Barker,  Mr.  Granville,  52, 
60,    74,    86  ff.,    106,    173, 

195 

Prunella,  86 

The  Madras  House,   86, 

90  ff.,  154,  192 
The    Marrying    of   A  nn 

Leete,  71,  87-8,  93 
The    Voysey  Inheritance, 

88-9,  93,  195-6 

Waste,  89-90 

Barrie,  Sir  J.  M.,  67 

Mary  Rose,  174 

Peter  Pan,  67,  163 

The  Admirable  Crichton, 

67 
Bartholomew  Fair,  see  Jonson 
Bassanio,  in  Sh.  M.  of  V.,  168, 

201 
Belvidera,  in  Otway's  V.  Pres., 

181 
Bennett,    Mr.    Arnold,    67  ; 

his  "  sense  of  the  theatre," 

67 

Milestones,  67 

The      Honeymoon,      67  ; 

peripeteia  in,  197 

The  Title,  67 

Bernadotte,  134 

Besier,     Mr.     Rudolf,     64 ; 

Don,  64 
Birds,  The,  see  Aristophanes 
Blanco  Posnet,  see  Shaw 
Blandin,   Mme.,   in  Lavedan's 

Viveurs,  192 
Bloomfield     Bonnington,      Sir 

Ralph,  in  Shaw,  Dr.'s  Dil., 

16 
Bluntschli,    in    Shaw,    A.    and 

M.,  II,  150,  169 
Borridge,    Ethel,    in   H.    Cass. 

Eng.,  79 
Bottomley,  Mr.  Gordon,  59 
Boucicault,  Dion,  49,  160-1 


Boy,  The,  see  Pinero 
Brack,  Judge,  in  I.  H.  G.,  167 
Bracknell,  Lord,  in  W.  Import., 

60 
Bradley,    Professor   A.    C, 

142  ;      his    Shakespearean 

Tragedy,  115  n. 
Brassbound,  Captain,  in  Shaw, 

26 
Brieux,  M.,  106,  125 
Brothers,  The,  see  Terence 
Browning,  59 
Burglar  Who  Failed,  The,  see 

Hankin 
Burgoyne,    General,   in  Shaw, 

Devil's  D.,  14-5 

Caesar,  in  Sh.  Cymb.,  198 

—  in  Sh.  /.  C,  206 

CcBsar     and      Cleopatra,      see 

Shaw 
Caesar,    Julius,   his  landing  in 

Britain,  no 
in  Shaw,  C.  and  CI.,  42, 

97-8 
Cairn,    David,    in    Mrs.    G.'s 

Necklace,  152 
Caius   Lucius,    in    Sh.    Cymb., 

198 
Calchas,  in  E.  /.  at  A.,  17,  19 
Calderon,    George,    60,    71, 

104  ff. 
Camillo,    in    Sh.    A    W.'s    T., 

200 
Candida,  see  Shaw 
Capulets    and    Montagues,    in 

Sh.  R.  and  J.,  158 
Capus,  M.  Alfred,  M.  Piigois, 

132,  199 
Carlyle,  4 

Cassandra,  in  M.  A  gam.,  190 
Cassilis  Engagement,   The,  see 

Hankin 

—  Geoffrey,     in     H.     The    C. 

Eng.,  79 
Cassio,  in  Sh.  0th.,  136 
Cassius,  in  Sh.  /.  C,  136 
Caste,  see  Robertson 
Cecily,   Lady,   in  Shaw,  Capf. 

B.,  23 
Celimene,  in  M.  Le  Misan.,  t.so, 

197 
Chantecler,  see  Rostand 


214 


EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 


Charity   that    began   at   Home, 

The,  see  Hankin 
Charmian,  in  Sh.  A.  and  CI., 

170 
Charrington,  Mr.  Charles,  52 
Charteris,   in   Shaw,  Philand., 

lOI 

Cherry  Orchard,  see  Tchekof 
Chiron,  mentioned  in  E.  /.  at 

A.,  18 
Chremes,  in  Terence,  Phormio, 

185 
Cleon,  45,  47 
Cleopatra,  in  Sh.  A.  and  C, 

136,  140 
Clytaemnestra,  17,  20,  189  ff. 
CoNGREVE,  60,  103,  149 
Constable,  208 

Constant  Lover,  The,  see  Han- 
kin 
Coriolanus,  see  Shakespeare 
Course      du      Flambeau,      see 

Hervieu 
Courtney,  Mr.  W.  L.,  69 
Critic,  The,  see  Sheridan 
Crusoe,  Robinson,  see  Defoe 
Cusins,  in  Shaw,  Maj.  B.,  loi 
Cymbeline,  see  Shakespeare 

Dane's  Defence,  Mrs.,  187,  see 

Jones 
Darius,  186 
Darlington,   Lord,   in  W.   Ly. 

W.'s  Fan,  61 
David  Garrick,  49 
Davies,     Mr.     H.     H.,     Mrs. 

Gorringe's  Necklace,  152 
Defoe,      Daniel,      Robinson 

Crusoe,  has  no  plot,  112  ff. 
Demea,  in  Ter.  Brothers,   185, 

196 
Denison,  Lady,  in  H.  Charity, 

78 
Desdemona,  154,  167 
Devil's  Disciple,  The,  see  Shaw 
Dickens,  3,  49,  loi 
Dionysus,  184 
Divine  Gift,  The,  see  Jones 
Doctor's    Dilemma,     The,     see 

Shaw 
Doll's  House,  A,  see  Ibsen 
Don,  see  Besier 
Don  Juan  in  Hell,  see  Shaw 


Doyle,  Larry,  in  Shaw,  Jo.  B., 

104 
Drama  and  Life,  see  Walkley 
Dramatic     Values,    see    Mon- 
tague 
Drinkwater,       Mr.       John, 

Abraham  Lincoln,  135 
Dubedat,  Louis,  in  Shaw,  Dr.'s 

Dil.,  9 
Dudgeon,     Dick,      in     Shaw, 

Devil's  D.,  96,  99 
—  Mrs.,   in   Shaw,  Devil's  D., 

16 
Dumas  ^/s,  Francillon,  169 
Duncan,    in    Sh.    Macb.,    167, 

175,  181,  189 

Eldest  Son,  The,  see  Gals- 
worthy 

Electra,  in  E.  EL,  24  ff. 

Electra,  see  Euripides 

Elizabeth,  138 

Elmire,  in  M.  Tartuffe,  184 

Emilia,  in  Sh.  0th.,  136 

Enemy  of  the  People,  An,  see 
Ibsen 

Enobarbus,  in  Sh.  A.  and  C, 
136 

Erlynne,  Mrs.,  in  W.  Ly.  W.'s 
Fan,  180 

Ervine,  Mr.  St.  John,  115  n. 

Eugene  Marchbanks,  in  Shaw, 
Cand.,  103 

Euripides,  1-48  ^fl55jw,  146  ff., 
158,  170 

—  in  Ar.  Frogs,  184 

—  Alcestis,  34,  197  ;    accident 

in,  130 

—  Andromache,  34,  39,  40 

• —  BacchcB,  lo-i  (qd.  in  trans.) 

—  Electra,  2.^fi. 

—  Hecuba,  economy  in,  169 

—  Helena,  119 

—  Hippolytus,  34,  168,  190 

—  Iphigenia   at   Aulis,    16  ff., 

41-2 

—  Medea,  29  ff.,  31,  123,  135, 

150 

—  Orestes,  118,  170 

—  Rhesus,  194 
Eustace,  in  H.  Prodigal,  81 
Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour, 

see  JoNSON 


INDEX  OF  PERSONS  AND  WORKS     215 

Hamlet,  in  Sh.  H.,  iii,  115  n. 

142  ff.,  182 
Hamlet,  see  Shakespeare 
Hankin,    St.    John,    60,    71 

76  ff.,  81,  105-6 
•  The  Burglar  who  failed, 

76 
The  Cassilis  Engagement, 

76,  79 
The    Charity   that   began 

at  Home,  76,  78-9 

The  Constant  Lover,  76 

The     Last     of     the     de 

Mullins,  76,  79-80,  199 
The   Return  of  the   Pro- 
digal, 76  fi.,  80 
The  Two  Mr.  Wetherhys, 

76-7,   199 
Hardy,  Mr.  Thomas,  and  M., 

206 
Tess  of  the  D'  Urbervilles, 

75 
The  Return  of  the  Native, 

93 
Harpagon,     in     M.     L'Avare, 

141-2 
Hauptmann,  158 
Heartbreak  House,  see  Shaw 
Hector,  40 

Hecuba,  see  Euripides 
Hedda  Gabler,  see  Ibsen 
Hedwig,  in  I.  W.  Duck,  76 
Heine,  183 
Helen,  mentioned  in  E.  /.  at  A., 

41 

Helena,  see  Euripides 

Helmer,  Nora,  in  I.  Doll's  H., 
56,  131,  180,  194 

—  Torvald,  in  I.  Doll's  H., 
56,  131,  180,  194 

Henry  the  Fifth,  in  Sh. 
Hy.   v.,  175 

Henry  the  Fifth,  see  Shakes- 
peare 

Henry  the  Fourth,  see  Shakes- 
peare 

Henry  the  Sixth,  see  Shakes- 
peare 

Hepplewhite,  106 

Heracles,  in  M.  Prom.  V., 
169  ;   in  E.  Ale,  130,  199 

Heralds,  in  M.  Supplice.^. 
etc.,  170 


Falstaff,  in  Sh.,  140,  182  ; 
in  Hy.  IV.,  117,  140,  168, 
203  ;  in  Sh.  M.  Wives,  138 

Faust,  III,  175 

Faust,  see  Goethe 

Felicia  Hindemarsh,  in  Jones, 
Mrs.  D.'s  Def.,  180 

Ferrand,  in  G.  Pigeon,  81 

Ferrovius,  in  Shaw,  Andr.,  100 

Fielding,  Henry,  49 

Fontenais,  Mme.,  in  Hervieu, 
La  C.  du  Fl.,  151 

Fool,  in  Sh.  Lear,  151 

Forbes-Robertson,  Sir  John- 
ston, 97 

Fountain,  The,  see  Calderon 

Francillon,  see  Dumas 

Friar  Laurence,  in  Sh.  R.  and 
J.,  128.  158  (qd.) 

Friday,  Man,  in  R.  Crusoe, 
107 

Frogs,  The,  see  Aristophanes 

Froufrou,  see  Meilhac- 
Hal^vy 

Galsworthy,  Mr.  John,  60, 
71,  74,  80  ff.,  105,  205 

Justice,  84-5,  125 

Strife,  154 

The  Eldest  Son,  81 

The  Pigeon,  81-2  (qd.) 

The  Silver  Box,  82  ff . 

The  Skin  Game,  85 

Gamp,  Mrs.,  203 

Garnett,  Miss,  in  Shaw,  Can- 
dida, 103 

Garrick,  David,  49 

George  Dandin,  see  Moliere 

Getting  Married,  see  Shaw 

Ghosts,  see  Ibsen 

Gloria,  in  Shaw,  You  Never,  loi 

Goethe,  Faust,  122,  147  (qd.) 

Gorringe's  Necklace,  Mrs.,  see 
Davies 

Grant,  General,  iii 

Gratiano,  in  Sh.  M.  of  V.,  201 

Grieg,  133 

Guinea  -  Hen,  in  Rostand, 
Chantecler,  153 

Hal,  Prince,  in  Sh.  Hy.  IV.,  168 

Hallam,  Sir  Howard,  in  Shaw, 

Capt.  B.,^i6,  22  ff.,  26 


216 


EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 


Herdsman,  in  S.  (E.  Tyr.,  178 
Hervieu,  158  ;    La  Course  dit 

Flambeau  (qd.),  151 
Hill,  Jenny,  in  Shaw,  Maj.  B., 

44 
Hippolytus,  see  Euripides 
Hobbyhorse,     The,     53  ;      see 

Pinero 
Honeymoon,  The,  see  Bennett 
Hotspur,  in  Sh.  Hy.  IV.,  140 
HousMAN,  Mr,  Laurence,  86 
How  He  Lied  to  her  Husband, 

see  Shaw 
Huxtable  family,  in  B.  Madras 

H.,  90,  92,  192 

lago,  in  Sh.  0th.,  136-7,  167 
Ibsen,   50,   53  ff.,   62,  69,  95, 

loi,  106-7,  136,  148,  158, 

etc.  etc. 

—  chief  aim  of,  54,  124 

—  dialogue  in,  162 

—  his    influence    on    English 

playwrights,  etc.,   59,  64, 

173 

—  A  Doll's  House,  49,  52,  55, 

128,  131,  179,  194 

—  An  Enemy  of  the  People,  52, 

57,  172-3 

—  Ghosts,  54,  56  fE, 

—  Hedda     Gabler,     53-4,     58, 

136-7,  147,  163,  167-8 

—  Little  Eyolf,  154 

—  Peer  Gynt,  163 

—  Rosmersholm,  52 

• — •  The  Master  Builder,  136 

—  The  Wild  Duck,  52,  58,  76, 

136,  206 

Idea  of  Tragedy,  The,  see 
Courtney 

Importance  of  Being  Earnest, 
The,  see  Wilde 

lo,  in  IE.  Prom.  V.,  169 

Iphigenia  at  Aulis,  see  Euri- 
pides 

Isabella,  in  Sh.  Meas.  for  M., 
200 

Jack  Straw,  see  Maugham 
Jacob,  mentioned  in  Sh.  M.  of 

v., -75 
Jaffier,  in  Otway,  Venice  Pres., 
181 


Jason,  in  E.  Medea,  28  £f.,  36 
Jessica,  in  Sh.  M.  of  V.,  202 
Jocasta,  in  S.  CE.  Tyr.,  178 
John  Bull's   Other  Island,   see 

Shaw 
Jones,  Mr.   Henry  Arthur, 

60,  67-8,  173 
Michael     and     his     Lost 

Angel,  68 
Mrs.     Dane's      Defence, 

180 

The  Divine  Gift,  68 

The  Liars,  68 

The  Philistines,  68 

Jones,  in  G.  Silver  Box,  83 
JoNSON,  Ben,  149 
Jourdain,  M.,  154 
Julia,  in  Shaw,  Philand.,  loi 
Juliet,  in  Sh.  R.  and  J.,  128 
Juliet's  nurse,  in  Sh.  R.  and  J., 

171 
Julius  Caesar,  in  Sh.  /.  C,  135, 

181 
Julius     CcBsar,    see     Shakes- 
peare 
Justice,  see  Galsworthy 

Keats,  72 

Kent,  in  Sh.  Lear,  151 

King  Lear,  see  Shakespeare 

Krogstad,  in  I.  D.'s  Ho.,  128, 

131,  194 
Kyd,  The  Spanish  Tragedy,  a 
good  melodrama,  119 

Laban,  75 

Lady    Windermere's    Fan,   see 

Wilde 
Laius,  in  S.  (E.  Tyr.,  178 
Lamachus,  in  Ar.  Ach.,  183 
Land    of    Promise,    The,    see 

Maugham 
La     Pierre     de     Touche,     see 

AUGIER 

La  Rochefoucauld,  161 
Last  of  the  de  Mullins,   The, 

see  Hankin 
Lavedan,  M.  Henri,  Viveurs, 

192 
Lavinia,  in  Shaw,  Andro.,  100 
Liars,  The,  see  Jones 
Libation  -  Bearers,      The,     see 

iEsCHYLUS 


INDEX  OF  PERSONS  AND  WORKS     217 


Linden,   Mrs.,  in  I.  D.'s  Ho., 

128,  131 
Little  Eyolf,  see  Ibsen 
London  Assurance,  see  Bouci- 

CAULT 

Longfellow,  104 
Lorenzo,  in  Sh.  M.  of  V.,  202 
Louka,  in  Shaw ,  A .  and  M . ,  169 
Love  and  Mr.  Lewisham,   see 
Wells 

Macaulay,  3-4 

Macbeth,   in   Sh.   Macb.,    113, 

115  n.,  142,  150,  167,  175, 

178,  182,  188-9 

—  his  soHloquies,  156 

—  Lady,   in   Sh.   Macb.,    140, 

150 
Macbeth,  see  Shakespeare 
MacduiT,  188  f. 
Madras,    Constantine,    in    B. 

M.  House,  90 
Madras      House,      The,      see 

Barker 
Maeterlinck,    M.,    74  ;    dia- 
logue in,  155 
Magistrate,  The,  see  Pinero 
Major  Barbara,  see  Shaw 
Mak,  in  the  Secunda  Pastorum 
"  Towneley  "         Miracle- 
Play,  112 
Malcolm,  in  Sh.  Macb.,  189 
Man  and  Superman,  see  Shaw 
Man    in   the    Stalls,    The,    see 

SUTRO 

Man  of  Destiny,  The,  see  Shaw 
Marchbanks,  Eugene,  in  Shaw, 

Candida,   103 
Marivaux,  121 
Marrying  of  Ann  Leete,   The, 

see  Barker 
Marston,  Westland,  49,  61, 

107 
Mary  Rose,  see  Barrie 
Masefield,  Mr.  John,  60,  71 
Master      Builder,      The,      see 

Ibsen 
Maugham,  Mr.  Somerset,  66  ; 

Jack     Straw,     66  ;       The 

Land  of  Promise,  67 
Maximes  et  Reflexions  Morales, 

of    La    Rochefoucauld, 

161 


Measure     for     Measure,     see 

Shakespeare 
Medea,  in  E.  M.,  29  ff.,  35  ff., 

I35>  148 
Medea,  see  Euripides 
Meilhac-Hal^vy,     Froufrou, 

154 
Menelaus,  in  E.  /.  at  A.,  19 

—  in  E.  Androm.,  40 
Merchant  of  Venice,   The,  see 

Shakespeare 
Mercutio,    in   Sh.    R.   and   J., 

151  ;      his     Queen     Mab 

speech,  156,  158 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  The, 

see  Shakespeare 
Messengers  in  Greek  tragedy, 

156  n. 
Micawber,  138 
Michael    and  his   Lost  Angel, 

see  Jones 
Micio,  in  Terence,  Brothers,  196 
Midsummer     Night's     Dream, 

see  Shakespeare 
Milestones,  see  Bennett 
Miranda,  in  Sh.  Tp.,  156 
Misalliance,  see  Shaw 
Misanthrope,  Le,  see  Moliere 

MOLIERE,   121,    148-9 

—  George  Dandin,  116  n. 

—  [L'Avare],    141-2 

—  Le   Misanthrope,    150,    176, 

197 

—  Tartuffe,  124,  184 

M.  Piegois,  see  Capus 

Montague,  Mr.  C.  E.,  Dra- 
matic Values,  p.  27  qd., 
116  n.  ;  p.  227  qd.,  156  n. ; 
pp.  180  et  seq.  referred  to, 
180  n. 

Montagues    and    Capulets,    in 

Sh.  R.  and  J.,  158 
More  11,  Rev.  James,  in  Shaw, 

Cand.,  12-3,  16,  103-4 
Mozart,  133 
Mrs.  Dane's  Defence,  180 

—  Gorringe's      Necklace,      see 

Davies 

—  Warren's     Profession,     see 

Shaw 
de   Mullins,    The   Last  of  the, 

see  Hankin 
De  Musset,  125, 


218 


EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 


Nan,     The    Tragedy    of,    see 

Masefield 
Napoleon,    6,    134;    in   Shaw, 

Man  ofD.,  15-6 
Nereus,  mentioned  in  E.  /.  at 

A.,  19 
Nora  Helmer,   in   I.   D.'s  H., 

56,  131,  180,  194 
Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith,  The, 

see  PiNERO 
Nym,  in  Sh.,  151 

Oberon,  in  Sh.  M.  N.  Dr.,  165 
O'Connell,  Amy,  in  B.  Waste, 

89,  95 
CEdipus,  in  S.   OE.  Col.,   171  ; 

in  (E.  Tyr.,  179 
CEdipus  Coloneus,  Rex,  Tyran- 

nus,  see  Sophocles 
Old  Wives'  Tale,  see  Peele 
Olivia,  in  Sh.  Tw.  N.,  200 
One  of  the  Best,  138 
On  ne  badine  pas  avec  V amour, 

see  De  Musset 
Orestes,       in       JE.,       146-7  ; 

Choeph.,  190  ;    in  E.  EL, 

24-5,  27  ;   Or.,  148 
Orestes,  see  Euripides 
Orgon,  in  M.  Tartuffe,  184 
Othello,  in  Sh.  0th.,  167,  182, 

185 
Othello,  see  Shakespeare 
Otway,  Thomas,   Venice  Pre- 

serv'd,  180 

Palmerston,  2 

Paris,  mentioned  in  1^.  I.  at  A., 

Patrick  Cullen,   Sir,  in  Shaw, 

Dr.'s  Dil.  (qd.),  9 
Patterne,  Sir  Willoughby,  138 
Paulina,  in  Sh.  A  W.'s  T.,  200 
Peace,  The,  see  Aristophanes 
Peele,    George,    Old   Wives' 

Tale,  157 
Peer  Gynt,  see  Ibsen 
Peleus,  19,  21 
Pelias,  29 
Pericles,  2 

PerscB,  see  ^schylus 
Perseus,  137 

Persians,  in  IE.  Perscs,  185 
Peter  Pan,  see  Barrie 


Phaedra,    in    E.  HippoL,   148, 

168 
Phidre,  see  Racine 
Philanderers,  The,  see  Shaw 
Philistines,  The,  see  Jones 
Phillips,  Stephen,  59 
Phormio,  see  Terence 
Pickwick,  Samuel,  139 
Piigois,  M.,  see  Capus 
Pierre,  in  Otway,  V.  Pres.,  181 
Pigeon,  The,  see  Galsworthy 
PiNERO,  Sir  Arthur,  53,  55, 

60,  68-70,  105,  173 
Pistol,  in  Sh.,  151 
Plantagenet  kings,  in  Sh.,  140 

—  mother  in  Robertson,  Caste, 

62 
Plato  and  women,  34 
Playboy  of  the  Western  World, 

see  Synge 
Players,  in  Sh.  Hamlet,  142 
Playmaking,  see  Archer 
Plutus,  see  Aristophanes 
Pogram,    Elijah,    in    Dickens, 

M.  Chuz.,  203 
Polonius,    in    Sh.    H.,    115  n., 

143-4 
Polydorus,  in  E.  Hecuba,  169 
Polyxena,  in  E.  Hecuba,  169 
Pompey  the  Great,  see  Mase- 
field 
Portia,  in  Sh.  M.  of  V.,  140, 

154,  168,  202 
Preserving  Mr.   Panmure,  see 

PiNERO 

Prince  Hal,  in    Sh.  Hy.    IV., 

168 
Prism,  Miss,  in  W.  Import.,  200 
Private  Secretary,  The,  12 
Professor    A.    C.    Bradley, 

Shakespearean       Tragedy, 

115  n.,  142-3 
Professor  of  Greek,  in   Shaw, 

Maj.  B.,  7 
Prometheus,  in  IE.  Prom.  V., 

147,  169 
Prometheus      Bound,       see 

iEsCHYLUS 

—  Unbound,  see  Shelley 

—  Vinctus,  see  ^schylus 
Prospero,     in     Sh.     Tp..     128 

and  n.,  141,  165,  203  ;  his 
narrative,  156 


INDEX  OF  PERSONS  AND  WORKS     219 


Prunella,     see     Barker     and 

HOUSMAN 

Puck,  in  Sh.  M.  N.  Dr.,  165 
Punch,  3,  53 
Pygmalion,  see  Shaw 
Pylades,  170 

Racine,  Phedre,  156  n. 
Raina,  in   Shaw,  A.   and   M., 

150,  169 

Ramsden,  in  Shaw,  Man  and 
Sup.,  176 

Raphael's  "  School  of  Athens," 
129 

"  Recits  de  Theramene,"  156  n. 

Rejane,  Mme.,  192 

Renault,  in  Otway,  V.  Pres., 
181 

Return  of  the  Native,  The,  see 
Hardy 

Return  of  the  Prodigal,  The, 
see  Hankin 

Rhesus,  see  Euripides 

Robertson,  Thomas,  49-50, 
53,  61-2,  66,  107 

Caste,  49,  53  ;  char- 
acters in,  62 

Robinson  Crusoe,  107 

Robinson  Crusoe,  see  Defoe 

Rochefoucauld,  La,  see 
La  R. 

Rodin,  73 

Roman  triumvirs,  in  Sh.,  140 

Romeo,  in  Sh.  R.  and  J.,  128, 
158,  171,  175 

Romeo  and  Juliet,  see  Shake- 
speare 

Rosalind,  in  Sh.  As  You, 
141 

Rosmersholm,  see  Ibsen 

Rostand,  M.,  Chantecler,  153, 
156,  163 

Sabine,  in  Hervieu,  La  C.  du  F., 

151.  176 

Sabine      Women,      The,      see 

Andreiev 
Saranoff,  in  Shaw,  A.  and  M., 

12,  16  ff.,  169 
Sartorius,  Blanche,   in   Shaw, 

Wid.  Ho.,  10 1 
Schiller,  48 
Schnitzler,  Anatol,  174 


School  for  Scandal,  screen- 
scene  in,  see  Sheridan 

"  School  of  Athens,"  129 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  49 

Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray,  The 
see  Pinero 

Shakespeare,  52,  69,  84,  loi, 
115  n.,  140,  142  ff.,  148, 
158,  182,  187-8,  198  ;  as 
comedian,  121  ;  his  chief 
aim,  54,  124 

—  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  136 

—  As  You  Like  It,  1 70 

—  Coriolanus,  hostile  collision 

in,  150 

—  Cymbeline  (qd.),  weak  con- 

clusion of,  169,  198, 
203 

—  Hamlet,  112  n.,  122,  142  ff.; 

Ervine  on,  and  peripeteia 
in,  115  n.  ;  supernatural 
agency  in,  165 

—  Henry  the  Fifth,   138,    156, 

175 

—  Henry  the  Fourth,  150,  168, 

203 

—  Henry  the  Sixth,  a  chronicle, 

140 

—  Julius    Ccssar,    133,    135-6 

(qd.),  196-7;  funeral 
speech  in,  156  ;  catas- 
trophe in,  I 8 1-2 

—  King  Lear,  151 

—  Macbeth,  53,  112,  167,  175, 

188-9  ;  double  recoil  in, 
178 

—  Measure  for  Measure,  200 

—  Merchant    of    Venice,    75-6 

(qd.),  150,  165,  170; 
preparation  for  peripeteia 
in,  187  ;  Fifth  Act. 
peripeteia,  denouement, 
and  conclusion  in,  201 

—  Merry    Wives    of   Windsor, 

138 

—  Midsummer  Night's  Dream, 

203  ;   magic  in,  165 

—  Othello,    117  ff.;     a    melo- 

drama, 124,  137,  150,  167  ; 
catastrophe  of,  185 

—  Romeo  and  Juliet,  128,  172, 

175;  accident  in,  151; 
Mab  speech  in,  156-7 


220 


EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 


Shakespeare,  Tempest,  127, 
12811.  ;  accident  in,  130, 
151  ;  magic  in,  165  ;  Pros- 
pero's  narrative  in,  156, 
203 

—  Titus  Andvonicus,  133 

—  Twelfth  Night,  108,  200 

—  Winter's  Tale,  The,  165,  200 
Shakespearean     Tragedy,     see 

Bradley 
Shaw,  Mr.  George  Bernard, 
1-48  passim,    52,    58,   60, 
71,   74,  79  ff.,  95  ff.,    155, 

173 

Androcles  and  the  Lion, 

100 
Arms  and  the  Man,   12, 

150,  169 

—  • —  Back  to  Methuselah,  98-9 

Blanco  Posnet,  99 

CcBsar      and      Cleopatra 

(qd.),  42  ff.,  97-8 
Candida,        10,        12  ff., 

103  (qd.) 
Captain        Brassbound's 

Conversion,  22-3 
Devil's    Disciple,     14-5, 

96  ff. 

Doctor's  Dilemma,  8 

Don     Juan     in     HeU  = 

Act  iii.  of  Man  and  Sup., 

102 
Getting  Married,  loi,  174, 

186 

Heartbreak  House,  98,  193 

How    He    Lied     to    her 

Husband,  9 
John  Bull's  Other  Island, 

32,  104 
Major    Barbara,    7,     32, 

43-4.  99,   loi,   179;    dia- 
logue in,  159 
Man  and  Superman,  39, 

150,  176,  196 

Man  of  Destiny,  15-6 

Mrs.  Warren's  Profes- 
sion, 32,  39,  122 

Pygmalion,  160 

The  Philanderers,  loi 

Widowers'  Houses,  32 

You  Never  Can  Tell,  loi 

Shelley,  4 

—  Prometheus  Unbound,  147 


Sheraton,    106 

Sheridan,  50  ;  Critic,  49-50  ; 
School  for  Scandal,  185 

Shylock,  in  Sh.  M.  of  V.,  75-6, 
139,  168,  182,  187-8  (qd.), 
201-2 

Silver  Box,  The,  see  Gals- 
worthy 

Skin  Game,  The,  see  Gals- 
worthy 

Smith,  Sydney,  4 

Solness  and  others,  in  I. 
M.  B.,  136 

Sophocles,  54,  115  n.,  121, 
125,  146,  148,  172  ; 
dialogue  in,  155  ;  his 
chief  aim,  54,  124 

—  Ajax,  171,  209 

—  Antigone,  149-50,  170 

—  CEdipus  Coloneus,  122,  171 

—  CEdipus  Rex  {=Tyr.),  53 

—  CEdipus  Tyrannus,  123,  124, 

163,  196;  accident  in, 
127-8;  complication,  peri- 
peteia, solution  in,  178 

—  Philoctetes,  154 
Spanish  Tragedy,  see  Kyd 
Sphinx,  in  Shaw,  C.  and  CI.,  42 
Spintho,  in  Shaw,  Andro.,  100 
Stangy,  in  Hervieu,  La  C.  du 

F.,  176 
Stephano,  in  Sh.  Tp.,  202 
Stephen  Phillips,  59 
Stockmann,    in    I.    En.   Pea., 

57  (qd.).  172 
Strife,  see  Galsworthy,  57 
Supplices,  see  ^schylus 
SuTRo,  Mr.  Alfred,  66-7 
Swindon,     Major,     in     Shaw, 

Devil's  D.,  15 
Synge,     J.    M.,    dialogue    in, 

155  ;    The  Playboy  of  the 

Western  World,  peripeteia 

in,  185 

Talbot,  in  Sh.  [Hy.  VI.],  140 
Tanner,    John,  in  Shaw,  Man 

and  Sup.,  150,  176,  196 
Tanqueray,  Mrs.,  in  P.  Second 

Mrs.  T.,  69-70 
Tartuffe,  in  M.  Tart.,  184 
Tartuffe,  see  Moliere 
Tchekof,  98,  192 


INDEX  OF  PERSONS  AND  WORKS     221 


Tempest,  The,  see  Shake- 
speare 

Tennyson,  3-4,  59 

Terence,  185  ;  dramaturgic 
economy         of,  169  ; 

Phormio,  185  ;  The 
Brothers,  185  ;  climax  in, 
196 

Tess  of  the  D'Urhervilles,  see 
Hardy 

Teucer,  in  S.  Ajax,  171 

Thackeray,  49 

"  Theramene,  Recits  de," 
156  n. 

Thetis,  17,  19 

Tims,  in  G.  Pigeon,  81 

Title,  The,  see  Bennett 

Titus  Andronicus,  see  Spiake- 

SPEARE 

Tortoise,  in  Rostand,  Chante- 

cler,  153 
Tragedy  of   Nan,    see    Mase- 

FIELD 

Trebell,   Henry,   in  B.    Waste, 

52,  89,  94  ff. 
Trench,  Harry,  in  Shaw,  Wid. 

Ho.,   loi 
Trenchard,      Voysey,     in     B. 

V.  Inherit.,  92 
Trinculo,  in  Sh.  Tp.,  202 
Trois  Filles  de  M.  Dupont,  Les, 

see  Brieux 
Trojans,  in  E.   /.   at  A.,   41  ; 

Rhesus,  194;  in  Homer,  i8 
Tubal,  in  Sh.  M.  of  F.,  170 
Tudor  nobles,  in  Sh.,  140 
Twelfth     Night,     see     Shake- 
speare 
Two  Mr.   Wetherhys,  The,  see 

Hankin 
Tybalt,  in  Sh.  R.  and  J.,  151, 

175 

Types  of  Tragic  Drama,  see 
Vaughan 

"  Uncle    Peter,"    as    deus    ex 

machina,  164,  176 
Undershaft,  in  Shaw,  Maj.  B. 

(qd.),  43-4 

—  Barbara,  in  Shaw,  Maj.  B., 

179 

—  Stephen,  in  Shaw,  Maj.  B. 

(qd.),  43-4 


Valentine,  in  Shaw,  You  Never, 

lOI 

Vanbrugh,  50 

Vaughan,   Professor  C.   E., 

Types   of  Tragic   Drama, 

115  n. 
Venice  Preserv'd,  see  Otway 
Victoria,  Queen,  5 
Viola,  in  Sh.  Tw.  N.,  200 
Viveurs,  see  Lavedan 
Voysey     family,     in     B.      V. 

Inherit.,  88,  91,  93-4,  195 
Voysey   Inheritance,    The,    see 

Barker 

Walkley,  Mr.  A.  B.,  Drama 

and  Life,  142  ff.,  160  andn. 
Professor        Bradley's 

"  Hamlet,"  143-4  (<ld.) 
— •  —  on  Sh.  Hamlet,  157  n. 
Walpole,    Horace,    his    saying 

on  life,  117 
—  Sir      Robert,      and      stage 

censorship,  49 
Waste,  see  Barker 
Watchman,    in    S.    Antigone, 

170 
Watts,  the  painter,  72 
Wells,  Mr.  H.  G.,  Love  and 

Mr.  Lewisham,  92 
Werle,    Gregers,    in    I.     Wild 

Duck,  76 
Wetherby,     Richard,     in     H. 

The  Two  Mr.   W.'s,   199- 

200 
Wetherby s.  The  Two  Mr.,  see 

Hankin 
White  field,  Ann,  in  Shaw,  Man 

and  Sup.,  150,  196 
Widowers'  Houses,  see  Shaw 
Wild    Duck,    in    I.     W.    D., 

206 
Wild  Duck,  The,  see  Ibsen 
Wilde,  Oscar,  60  £E.,  66,  75, 

79,  103,  105,  180  andn. 

^  dialogue  in,  161-2 

Lady  Windermere's  Fan, 

61  ;      catastrophe        and 

denouement  in,  180 
The  Importance  of  Being 

Earnest,  12,  60,  119 
Windermere,     Lady,     in     W. 

Ly.  W.'s  Fan,  180 


222 


EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 


Windermere,  Lord,  in  W.  Ly. 
W.'s  Fan,  i8o 

Winter's  Tale,  The,  see  Shake- 
speare 

Wordsworth,  3 


Yorick,  in  Sh.  Hamlet,  142 
You     Never     Can     Tell,     see 
Shaw 

Zeus,  in  IE.  Prom.  V.,  169,  207 


GENERAL  INDEX 


Accident  in  drama,  126  £E. 

Action,  Unity  of,  208 

-^schylean  plays,  202  ;  scenes 
in  Goethe's  Faust,  147  ; 
trilogy,  202 

Aim  of  art,  125-6  ;  of  dra- 
matic art,  123  ff.  ;  of 
Ibsen,  Shakespeare,  and 
Sophocles,  54,  124 

Amateur  productions,  108 

Americans,  4,  194 

Anglo-Indian  Colonel,  in  H. 
Charity,  78 

Apron-stage  of  Elizabethan 
theatre,  157 

Architectonic  skill,  necessary 
in  drama,  50  ;  of  Ibsen,  57 

Art  and  Science,  72 

Art,  object  of,  124 

Athenian  citizen,  in  Ar. 
Acharnians,  183 

—  decadence,  6  ;  democracy, 
57  ;  dramatists,  57  ; 
literature,  6  ;  ochlocracy, 
57  ;  patriotism,  6  ;  philo- 
sophy, 6 ;  politics,  6 ; 
women,  33 

Audience,  Elizabethan,  181  ; 
English,  181 

Bow    of    Philoctetes,     in    S. 

Philoc,   154 
Burlesque,  121 
"  Bushiness,"   in  drama,  esp. 

Russian  d.,  192-3 
"  Business,"  153-4 

Canon,  in  W.  Import.,  200 
Carpets,  in  M.  A  gam.,  154 
Caskets,  in  Sh.  M.  of  V.,  154 
Catastrophe,     175,     196 ;      in 
tragedy,  185  ;   liable  to  a 


special     danger,     191  ff.  ; 
misuse  of  the  word,  206  ; 
not  "  disaster,"  206 
Catastrophe,  in  I.  A  D.'s  Ho., 
179-80 

—  in  W.  Ly.  W.'s  Fan,  180 

—  in  Sh.  Macb.,  179 

—  in  S.  CE.  Tyr.,  179 

—  in  Sh.  0th.,  185 

—  in  M.  Tartuffe,  184 

—  in    Terence,    The   Brothers, 

185 
Censorship  Commission,  95 

—  of  stage,  49,  56 
Character-drawing    of    Ibsen, 

56 
Characterisation     in     drama, 

132  fi. 
"  Circumstance  "    in   tragedy, 

206 
Classical  and  romantic  drama, 

170 

—  dialogue  in  Ibsen,  172-3 
"  Click,"  in  drama,  151  ff. 
Climax,  196,  206 
Coincidence  in  drama,  127 
Collision    in    drama,     145  n., 

150-1 
Comedy,  117,  145 

—  of  Manners,  60  ff,,  148 

—  peripeteia  in,  177 

—  Roman,  123 

—  what  it  is,  116  ff. 
Complication  in  drama,   193  ; 

in  life,  11 1 

—  in  S.  CE.  Tyr.,  178 

—  liable  to  a  special  danger, 

191 
Conclusion  in  drama,  196 
Contrast  in  drama,  145  n. 
Conventions  in  drama,  118 
Crisis  in  drama,  145  n.,  175 


GENERAL  INDEX 


223 


Crutch,  in  I.  Little  Eyolf,  154 
"  Curtain,"  152 

—  "  descends    on    a    note    of 

interrogation,"  193 

—  "effective,"  63  ;  "  strong," 

204 

Danger  of  prose-dialogue,  159 
Dangers  of  catastrophe,  com- 
phcation,  dSnouement,  191 

—  of    various    dramatic    dia- 

logue-forms, 156  ff. 
Dark  Age  of  English  dramatic 

literature  (i  779-1 889),  49 
Death  of  hero  not  a  necessary 

ingredient  in  tragedy,  122 
Debate  in  B.'s  plays,  94 
Delian  League,  6 
Delphic    Oracle,    in    E.     EL, 

24,  45  ;  in  Sh.  The  W.'s  T., 

165 

Denouement,     114,     163,     175, 
176,  196,  197,  206 

—  danger  to  which  it  is  liable, 

191 

—  in  Ar.  Acharn.,  183 

—  in  E.  Ale,  130 

—  in  I.  AD.'s  Ho.,  180,  194 

—  in  Otway,  Ven.  Pres.,  180-1 

—  inSh. /.  G.,  182,  197 

—  inSh.  M.  of  v.,  201 

—  in  S.  Gt.  Tyr.,  178 

—  in  W.  Ly.  W.'s  Fan,  180 

—  weaknesses  in,  193  ff . 

—  whence  it  should  arise,  132 
Desisy  of  Aristotle,  132 

Deus     ex     machina,     "  Uncle 

Peter  "  as,  164  ff.,  191 
Dialogue,  Economy  in,  170  fi. 

—  in  Congreve,  150  ;   in  Han- 

kin,  79 ;  in  Ibsen,  162, 
172-3  ;  in  Maeterlinck, 
155  ;  in  Mohere,  148  ;  in 
Rostand,  155  ;  in  Shaw, 
155  ;  in  Sophocles,  155  ; 
in  Synge,  155,  185  ;  in 
Wilde,   161-2 

—  poetical  form  or  prose  form, 

155 

—  varieties  of,  in  drama,  154  ff. 
Didacticism  in  drama,  125-6 
Difficulty  appropriately  solved, 

in  every  play,  1 1 1 


Double  recoil,   in  Sh.   Macb., 

178 
Drama  of  types,  149-50 

—  Russian,  192 

"  Drama,"  The  word,  no 
Drama,  what  it  is,  in 
Dramatic  art.  Forms  or  types 

of,  115  ff. 
its  aim,  125 

—  collision,  150 

—  conventions  as  they  affect 

the  four  types,  11 8-9 

—  intensity,  152 

—  manner,  144 

"  Dramatic,"  The  word,   145  ; 

wrong  use  of,  204-5 
Dramatic    types.     Occasional 

approximation  of,  to  each 

other,  1 16-7 
Duke  (Orsino),  in  Sh.  Tw.  N., 

200 

—  (Vincentio),  in  Sh.  M.  for 

M.,  200 

Economy  in  dialogue,  170  if. 

—  in  drama,  163 

—  in    management    of    char- 

acter, 166  ff. 

—  in  solution,  166  f . 
Education  Act,  1870,  2 
Elizabethan    audiences,    181  ; 

plays,  200  ;  theatre,  157 
Entertainment  by  drama,  80, 
124  ff. 

—  common  aim  of  all  dramas, 

124 
Exhibition,  The  Great  (1851), 

3 

Explanatory  domestics,  135 
External  events  or  happenings, 
in  drama,  126  ff. 

"  Falling  over,"  175 

Farce,  116  ff.,  128,  152  ;  deals 
with  experiences  of  par- 
ticular persons,  119  ; 
good,  118;  horseplay  in, 
118  ;  how  it  differs  from 
comedy,  119  ;  what  it  is, 
116  ff. 

Fate  in  tragedy,  206-7 

—  puppets  of,  206-7 
Fool,  in  Sh.  Lear,  151 


224 


EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 


French,  The,  4 

—  critics,    53  ;      farces,    108  ; 

tragedy  and  the  Three 
Unities,  208  ;  tragic  play- 
wrights, 121  ;  windows 
in  modern  drama,  162,  204 

Fundamental  characteristics  of 
E.  and  Shaw,  7  ff. 

Funeral  speech,  in  Sh.  /.  C, 
156;  is  the  peripeteia,  182 

Greek  comedy  and  tragedy 
parts  of  religious  ritual, 
123 

—  spirit  of  inquiry,  10 
Greeks,  16  &.,  20 
Greek  theatre,  157 

Handkerchief,  in  Sh.  0th.,  154 
"  Happy    ending,"    56,    77-8, 

199 
Hebrews,  75 
Hero,  Conventional  stage,  and 

Shaw,  16 
Horseplay  in  farce,  118 
Hostile  collision  in  drama,  150 
"  Huddled     ending,"    e.g.    in 

Sh.  Cymb.,  198 
Humours,  Drama  of,  149 

Ibsenism,  64,  105 

Ibsenists,     English,     71,     76, 

105-6 
Intensity  in  drama,  152 
Interaction    of    characters    in 

drama,  114 
Interpretation      of      life     the 

task  of  a  dramatist,  207-8 
Irishman,  The  comic,  65 
Irrational  elements  in  drama, 

Aristotle  on  these,  130 

"  Knot,  Untying  of  the,"  114 

Lady,  The,  in  Shaw,  M.  of  D., 

15 

Life-force,  in  Shaw,  102 
"  London  successes,"  108 

Magic  in  drama,  165 
"  Main  plot,"  202 
Mannequin  -  scene        in        B. 
Madras  H.,  154 


Manners,  Comedy  of,  60  ft.,  149 

Material  details,  Use  of,  in  pro- 
jecting character,    133  f . 

Mediaeval  plays,  123 

Melodrama,  118,  128,  133,  152  ; 
and  Shaw,  13  ;  good,  E.'s 
Helena  one,  119  ;  how 
distinguished  from  tra- 
gedy, 119;  Othello  a  (?), 
117  ;  physical  action  in, 
120  ;  spectacular  element 
in,  120  ;  theatricality  in, 
119  ;  violence  in,  120  ; 
what  it  is,  116  ff. 

Messengers'  speeches  in  Greek 
tragedy,   156  n. 

Methods  of  drama,  126  ff. 

"  Middle  "  of  a  play,  174  ff. 

Miracle-play,  112 

Misuse  of  various  words,  203  ft. 

Mohammedanism  in  B.  Madras 
H.,  91 

Morality,  in  I.  and  Shaw,  58-9 

Morality  plays,  147 

Mufhns,  in  W.  Import.,  119 


National  theatre,  86 
Neo-British    School,     62, 

66  ft.,  69,  77 
Nurse,  in  Sh.  R.  and  J.,  171 


63, 


Object  of  art,  124 
Olympian  gods,  10 

—  religion,  25 
Opera,  121 

Oracle,  Delphic,  24,  45,  165 
"Overthrow,"  175;  in  Shaw, 
Maj.  B.,  179 

Pantomimes,  121 

Particular    and    universal    in 

drama,   146  ft. 
Peloponnesian  War,  6 
Peripeteia,  175  ft.,  196,  206 

—  in       IE.      PerscB,      185-6; 

Prom,   v.,  177 

—  in   Ar.   Ach.,    183;    Birds, 

184  ;     Frogs,     177,     184  ; 
Peace,  184  ;   Plutus,  183 

—  in  Bennett,  Honeymoon,  197 

—  in  1.  D.'s  Ho.,  179 

—  in  H.  A.  Jones,  Mrs.  Dane's 

Defence,  180 


GENERAL  INDEX 


225 


Peripeteia  in  M.  Misanthrope, 
197  ;  Tartuffe,  184 

—  in  Otway,  Ven.  Pres.,  180 

—  in     Sh.     Hamlet,      115  n.; 

/.  C,  181-2  ;  Mach.,  178  ; 
M.  of  v.,  201  ;    0th.,  185 

—  in  Shaw,  Maj.  B.,  179 

—  in     Sheridan,      School     for 

Sc, 185 

—  in  S.  CE.  Tyy.,  178 

—  in  Synge,  Playboy,  185 

—  in  Terence,  Brothers,  184-5 

—  in  Wilde,  Ly.  W.'s  Fan,  180 

—  in  comedy,  177,  182—3;    in 

every  drama,  186  ;  its 
three  qualities,  177  ;  pre- 
paration for,  186  ff.;  where 
does  it  occur  ?  177 

Philistines,  and  their  watch- 
word, 126 

Physical  action  in  melodrama, 
120 

Place,  Unity  of,  208-9 

Plot,  III  ff.  ;  an  organism, 
1 1 3-4  ;  how  is  it  worked  ? 
174  if.  ;  the  "  soul  of  the 
play,"  144  ;  the  unum 
necessarium  in  drama,  113 

Poetic  dialogue,  155 

"  Poetical  drama,"  59 

Post-Ibsenist  manner,  71 

Postman,  in  modern  drama,  63 

Poverty,  in  Shaw,  32 

Pre-lbsenists,  104 

Preparation  for  the  peripeteia, 
186  ff.  ;  in  Sh.  Mach., 
188  ;  M.ofV.,  187-8 

Probability,  166 

"  Problem-play,"  65 

Projection  of  a  character,  133  ff. 

Propagandist  playwrights,  126 

Prose  dialogue,  155  ;  rule 
for,  160 

Pseudo-Ibsenism,  66 ;  Ibsenist 
school,  64 

Psychological  trend  of  modern 
English  dramatic  criti- 
cism, 115  and  n. 

Psychology  in  drama,  131  ff. 

"  Puppets  of  Fate,"  206 

Question  -  and  -  answer  plot, 
123 

15 


Question  of  a  drama,  whence 
it  should  arise,  132 

—  of  the  play,  177 

Realism  and  reality,  71  ff. 
Recitations  on  the  stage,  157-8 
"  Recits       de       Theramene,'' 

156  n. 
"Recoil,"     175;      double     r., 

or    repeated    r.,    in    Sh. 

Mach.,   178 

—  in  Ar.,    183;    in  M.   Tart., 

184  ;   in   Shaw,   Maj.   B., 

179  ;   and  see  Peripeteia 
"  Reinforced       reminiscence," 

125 
Renaissance  of  English  Drama, 

The  Present,  49-108 
Repertory  theatres,  107-8 
Revenge,  in  E.  and  Shaw,  22 
"  Reversal,"    175  ;    in    Shaw, 

Maj.    B.,    179  ;     and   see 

Peripeteia 
Revues,  121 
Roman  comedy  and  tragedy, 

123 
Russian  drama,  "  bushiness  " 

in,  192 

—  influence  on  English  drama, 

193 

—  playwrights,  192 

Saint  Crispin's  Day  harangue, 

in  Sh.  Hy.  V.,  175 
Salvation     Arm^^    in     Shaw, 

Maj.  B.,  179 
Science  and  art,  72 
Screen-scene,      in      Sheridan, 

Sch.  for  Sc,  185 
Semi-Ibsenist,  71 
Sexes,    Relations    of    the,     in 

E.  and  Shaw,  31 
Simplicity  not  the  same  thing 

as  economy,  in  drama,  163 
Situations,  in  Ibsen,  56 
Slaves,  in  Aristotle,  and  E.,  33 
"  Slice  of  life,"  149,  207-8 
Social  inequality,  in  E.,  32  ff. 
Solonian  regime,  33 
Solution,  in  drama,   114,   124, 

193,  196  ;    in  I.  D.'s  Ho., 

179-80  ;    in    S.    or.    Tyr., 

178-9 


226 


EURIPIDES  AND  SHAW 


Sophists,  6 

Spartan    confederacy,    in   Ar. 

Ach.,  183 
Staginess,  52 
"  Strong        curtains,"       204 ; 

"  strong  scene,"  70 
Supernatural  in  drama,  165 
Surprise  in  drama,  166 

Theatricality  and  drama  not 
the  same,  no 

—  in  melodrama,  119 

—  in  modern  drama,  204 
Three  Unities,  208-9 
Time,  Unity  of,  208 
Tortoise,  in  Rostand,  Chante- 

cler,  153 

Tragedy,  118,  145,  205  ;  mis- 
use of  the  word,  205  ; 
peripeteia  in,  177  ; 
Roman,  123  ;  what  it  is, 
116  ff. 

Tragi-comedy,  a  "  mechanical 
mixture,"  117 

Transcendentalists,  73-4 


"  Truth  to  life,"  159 
"  Tying,"  in  drama,  132 
Tj'^pes,  Jonson  a  dramatist  of, 
148-9 

"  Uncle    Peter "    as    deus    ex 

machina,  164,  191 
Underplot,  202  ;   in  I.,  57 
Unities,  The  Three,  208-9 
Universal    and    particular    in 

drama,   1466:. 
"  Untying  of  the  knot,"   114, 

163 

Victorian  age,  2  ff. 
Violence,  in  melodrama,  120 

Watchman,    in    S.    Antigone, 

170 
Waterloo,  Battle  of,  181 
"  Weltvernichtungsidee,"  183 
Wit,  of  E.  and  Shaw,  40 
Women,  in  B.,  90  fE.  ;    in  E., 

33  ff .  ;    in    Plato,    34 ;    in 

Shaw,  31  ff. 


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